


A Mating Moon

by unpossible



Series: The Last Traces of Smoke [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Prostitution, Underage Sex, just to be clear, this is not mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey, Scott, so, I uh, there’s this amazingly hot guy and I’m uh, gonna spend the weekend with him but, you know, just to be careful, I’m sending you his picture, so if by some terrible chance my bloated corpse shows up sometime Monday, just, y’know pass this along to the authorities.” He pauses. “Uh. Kidding?” and then hangs up with a rush of air.</p><p>“That is the worst voicemail in the history of voicemails,” Derek says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Banquet In The Dark (Black Friday)

 

Fucking Peter and his mind games. Derek shifts from foot to foot, tempted, so frigging tempted just to go inside the apartment and let it happen. The female inside is aware, is excited. He could go in there, let nature take its course. She smells good to his wolf, and perhaps his uncle would leave Derek the fuck alone if he gave in and performed stud duties.

Just the thought of it, though – a child, part of the pack and yet not truly Derek’s- _no_. He thinks of his parents, his brothers and sisters and everything in him recoils.

He swallows hard, tries to ignore the low-level arousal triggered by the knowledge that someone is there, warm and fertile and ready to be mounted-

He growls, spins on his heel, and runs. He gets back in the Camaro and drives until Beacon Hills is behind him, on to the outskirts of the next town and he leaves the car there, at a strip mall. He keeps going on foot, knows he’s in no state to drive safely now, with the mating moon close to rising and so very near to full and the urges beginning to hit.

He has one last bolthole of safety, an apartment Peter knows nothing about, and Derek heads there by the longest route he can manage, treks through garbage and stormwater drains on the way to ensure his scent is drowned out by the city. He can hunker down there and endure the mating moon until it passes. He always has before.

 

 

 

His route takes him through what this town would laughingly call a red-light district – half a block, really, of varying levels of desperation. Dealers and whores linger in half-shadows, drifting forward at the sight of a likely customer, a slow moving car or a shuffling junkie. They’re not sure what to make of Derek, his steady run, and he slows his pace a little, doesn’t want to draw the wrong attention, not with this itch under his skin and his control half-shredded.

He slows to a walk, takes in a deep breath and damn near falls to his knees.

That _scent_. Saliva floods his mouth, he breathes in deeper and swallows, fuck, what _is_ that? Like fresh bread and clean sheets, enticing and new and damn near addictive after just a few seconds exposure. He breathes in deep, hands shaky, and lifts his head, searching.

There’s a blonde kid under the street light, probably twenty or so, starting toward Derek with a practised slink, and nearer to the corner he spies a long, lean silhouette in a darkened doorway. The details he can make out would barely be visible to human eyes in the dark - close-cropped dark hair and pale, pale skin. Derek walks past the blonde like he isn’t even there, eyes fixed on his target, circling toward that divine scent, the pull getting stronger with each step.

“Hey,” the brunette says, low and inviting, only half-turned toward Derek, enough to show the rare colour of his eyes. At some point he’s learned enough to be wary of the blonde, who has taken a step forward, fingers curling into fists. Derek glares at the blonde warningly and he huffs out a breath and turns away, switching focus to a car that’s cruising the block.

Derek turns his gaze back to the amber-eyed boy. His hands are clenched against the urge to grab, to sink his face into that smooth, pale throat and just _breathe_. He has to, oh God this isn’t just about the moon but it’s worse tonight, urge getting stronger and he _needs_. His hands are still hands and not claws, teeth still human, but keeping it that way robs him of any finesse which is why he leads with, “How much for a whole night?”

“The whole night?” The kid says, startled. It makes his mouth a perfect, tempting ‘o’ and just like that Derek hears the truth of what he really wants slip from his lips.

“Three nights. The next three nights, you and me.”

“Uh.” The kid just stares. “That’d be... alot,” he says, clearly too stunned to think. Or too tired, maybe, the skin around his eyes is smudged dark with weariness.

Derek’s skin is itching, the scent of the boy drifting out to him, tempting as sin and he says, “Five thousand?”

“ _Five thousand?”_

Oh for crying out loud, this kid needs a keeper. At least it means he hasn’t been doing this long, isn’t hardened enough to keep up his poker face.

Derek licks his lips, feels his head clear a little from the haze of sex to an odd protectiveness. Screw it, he’s just gonna lay it all out there. “Nights and days,” he says, softly, enticing.

The kid blanches. “ _Days_ too? What the hell- let me look at you,” he demands suddenly.

Derek steps forward into the brightness under the street light. He usually gets a better reaction than the way the kid pales and shakes his head, hands coming up as if to defend himself.

“No, oh _shit_ no. What the _hell_ is your kink, man. What _exactly_ are you wanting to do to someone for three full days and nights-”

“What? Nothing. Well, nothing terrible. Fuck. Suck. The usual,” Derek says, hopelessly confused.

“No _way_. No way someone who looks like you has to pay for _that_ , you’re like, into heavy pain or unsafe bloodplay or some kind of weird shit, sounding or figging or-”

“No,” Derek interrupts, biting back a laugh. For a moment the wolf had snarled in rage at being rejected by this boy. This makes sense, though – he’s _smart_ , this kid, he’s trying for careful. “ _No_. I just. I don’t have anyone and I don’t want to go out and...” he flaps a hand to try and convey the exhaustion of trawling through a club, a bar, “go through all the bullshit. I want to just-” he stops and takes a ragged breath, eyes flying to the boy, knowing the raw hunger is all over his face.

He takes a shambling step forward. “I want to fuck, I want someone with _stamina_.” he says, low and rough, “I want someone who knows what they’re getting into and who’ll stay until I’m done.”

“Jesus,” the kid breaths. “Did you just get off a frigging submarine or out of a monastery or something, if you’re that horny?”

Derek lets out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. You could say that. It’s been a while.”

“Hungry,” the kid says, awed. His eyes flick up and down Derek’s body. He sucks in a quick, sharp breath and that’s when Derek knows he has him. “Ten thousand,” he says after a moment, a challenge.

“Done,” Derek says without hesitation. That pretty jaw drops.

“You are fucking _kidding_ me.”

He shakes his head, and the kid’s face twists. They both know the immediate agreement means he could have asked for more and Derek would have happily paid it.

“Shit,” he says faintly, almost to himself. “It’s almost worth the risk that you’re a serial killer.”

“I’m not a fucking _serial killer_ ,” Derek growls, offended, and yeah, possibly that wasn’t the most reassuring way to deliver that message.

Big amber eyes blink at him.

Derek sighs and drags himself under control. His usual surly glares are not going to help this situation. He’s going to have to – he winces internally – _talk_. “What’s your name, kid, and don’t-” he raises a hand, “ _don’t_ ask me what I want it to be. Make one up yourself, if you have to.”

“S-Sam,” the kid says, and Derek’s eyes narrow.

It’s a movie character, or a comic book reference, he’d bet his left nut on it. He shrugs, then, and says, “I’m Derek.”

Eyebrows go up. “That almost sounds like a real name.”

Derek eyebrows ‘Sam’ right back.

“Right,” Sam says faintly, “because a guy who’ll pay an underage hooker ten grand has nothing at all to hide.”

“You’re _underage_?”

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” the kid says, sounding suddenly exhausted, “me and my big mouth.” He slumps back against the wall and sends Derek a pleading glance, “Look, only by about two weeks. I swear.” He raises his hands and widens his eyes, possibly the same thing he does in his fucking high school French class or whatever when he _hasn’t_ _done his fucking homework_.

Jesus H. _Christ_. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

The wolf doesn’t care. The wolf doesn’t give two flying fucks what the law says about statutory rape and age of consent, the wolf only cares that this kid will taste like summer and trees and cool, bare earth and _mate_.

“Yeah,” he hears the kid say faintly, too faintly for human ears. “Genius move, Stiles.”

“I can’t, this,” Derek says, clinging to some kind of humanity, some semblance of right and wrong. He’s not an _animal-_

“Look, Derek,” Sam says, and he is suddenly very close, warm hand on Derek’s forearm overwhelming his capacity for thought for a moment and reducing him to pretty much a panting pup. “It’s pretty obvious that I – I need the money. Please. This would,” he swallows, licks his lips and Derek very nearly growls. “I don’t want to be doing this.” He gestures behind him, where Derek has been filtering out the sound of the blonde slurping his way through a blow job in the front seat of the car just around the corner from where they’re standing. “And if you-”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek says, with feeling. “Fuck my goddamn fucking life.” He’s a _moron_ for hesitating, even for a second. Because if _he’s_ not paying the kid for it, someone else will be. Plenty of someone else’s already _have_. At least Derek will treat him right. At least he’ll be _safe_.

He takes one shuddering breath. “All right, kid. Yeah.”

And then Sam laughs, suddenly. “Wow. Great. So glad I convinced you.” All his nerves are back in his voice again, at the idea of what he’s agreed to.

Derek just shakes his head.

 


	2. Good Friday

 

 

“Hey, Scott, so, I uh, there’s this amazingly hot guy and I’m uh, gonna spend the weekend with him but, you know, just to be careful, I’m sending you his picture, so if by some terrible chance my bloated corpse shows up sometime Monday, just, y’know pass this along to the authorities.” He pauses. “Uh. Kidding?” and then hangs up with a rush of air.

“That is the worst voicemail in the history of voicemails,” Derek says.

“Yeah, well. What am I gonna do?” The kid says back, tired.

“Nobody knows?” _That you’re out turning tricks on a school night?_

“Nobody knows,” he confirms, head down. Then he raises his phone and Derek glances away, to the side, so his eyes don’t flare and fuck up the photo. It’ll make ‘Sam’ feel better if it works. Now that his brain is working again he’s processed what he heard, the real name the kid let slip. _Stiles._

Derek has cash, not ten thousand, but at least two grand, at the apartment. Stiles greets this assurance with the scepticism it deserves, and so Derek uses his phone banking to transfer two thousand dollars to Stiles’ bank account just to get him to walk to the apartment. He puts in a call to his accountant while Stiles sends the photo to his friend, and arranges for the rest of the money to be made available tomorrow, for a courier to collect. His accountant doesn’t ask what it’s for or why he’d be calling late on a Friday night, and Derek doesn’t volunteer.

 

 

 

They start to walk.

“No-one’s going to miss you at home?” Derek asks. He’s not interested in being harrassed by an angry foster parent or pimp.

“No,” the kid says firmly, and that’s clearly the end of that conversation. They cover another block in silence.

“So. Um.” Stiles is nervous, Derek doesn’t need a wolf’s senses to know that.

“What exactly are you into?”

“Into?”

“What, like, dirty talk, heavy bondage?” He swallows hard, “Fisting?”

“Figging and sounding mostly,” Derek says. “Cock cages.”

Stiles’ eyes bug open for a second and then he seems to read Derek’s usually inscrutable poker face. “You _asshole,”_ he says, and punches Derek’s arm.

Derek bites back a grin. The wolf is calmer now, now that what he was seeking is within reach, and he can control himself - for a while, anyway. And Stiles needs something to think on while they walk, before he works himself into a state of total panic. “I’d like a blowjob,” he says, conversational, and the middle-aged woman walking past him sucks in an offended breath, glaring. “Not interested in fisting, and honestly, I’m not even sure what figging _is_. I’d like to fuck you in about six different positions, none of which involve bondage or dirty talk unless you’d like it better that way.”

Stiles’ face is slightly flushed. “Okay,” he says without specifying if he means _yes he’d like it better_ or just yes to the fucking, “and uh, we’re playing it safe, right?”

Derek eyes him. “Sure,” he says, “your rules.” He knows he’s clean, and he can smell that Stiles isn’t carrying any kind of disease, but he’s not about to suggest barebacking with a complete stranger to Stiles, who already seems ridiculously vulnerable for a teenaged hooker and just might be dumb enough to agree.

“Can I ask why you’re doing this?” He says, again without thinking.

Stiles stiffens. “Because I enjoy it so very much,” he snarks.

Derek nods. Fair enough, it was a dumb question. “You ran into money trouble,” he says, and watches Stiles’ hands tighten into fists. _Or your family did_ , he thinks. He’s clean and well fed, not living rough.

For a moment Derek lets himself think of what he would have done, if he’d found himself in trouble at that age. If he’d been the oldest to survive, instead of Laura. He’d have done anything to keep Emma and Andy and Jacob with him, to provide for them. “You’re just doing it for a while, just to get through a rough patch.” _Or that’s what you’re telling yourself_ , he thinks with an ache.

Stiles turns his head away and they pace in silence. “You, you don’t get to- whatever you’re paying me, I’m not gonna talk about that,” he grinds out eventually.

“Fair enough,” Derek says peaceably. The dumb wolf inside him is content as a frickin’ spoiled Pomeranian now that they’re so close to a safe lair.

 

 

 

About a block from the apartment Derek stops. He glances across the street, checking one last time for anyone following. But he’s been listening, he’s been focused on the scents all around and there’s nothing that shouldn’t be there.

Stiles shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “So, honestly, we’re gonna be locked in your house or apartment or whatever for three days straight. You don’t have to go to work?”

“It’s the weekend,” Derek reminds him. _Which is why you don’t have to go to school_ , he thinks with a wince.

“Right,” Stiles says as if to himself. He toes at the kerb, head down. “Just. Why days too? I mean, why insist I can’t leave? Are _you_ gonna leave at all?”

“No,” Derek says calmly, “I’m not leaving.”

“So how are we gonna eat?” he asks reasonably enough, though his heart is pounding faster.

“Delivery.”

Stiles hums at that, and Derek can sense his unease, the idea that he will be forced to share space with a stranger for such a long stretch, unrelieved. “You can search the place, if you want.” Though as he says it he remembers uneasily that he stashed chains there, under the sink, in case the wolf ever seemed in danger of losing control somehow.

Stiles gives him the side-eye, lips quirking. “If you’re making that offer you either have nothing to hide, or you’ve got it hidden it too well for me to easily find.”

Derek shrugs. There’s not a whole lot he can say to reassure the kid. Really, nothing’s going to reassure him until he’s under Derek’s hands and not coming to any harm.

“This your building?” Stiles asks.

“On the corner,” Derek jerks his chin towards it and leads the way across the street. “This isn’t where I live,” he adds, wanting to cut down on possible freak-outs at the Spartan decor. “I just keep this place to... get away from my family sometimes.”

Stiles brows lift just faintly.

Derek eyes him, so full of hesitation and yet so determined, and says simply, “Second floor.” Then he turns, jogs across the street and goes inside the building. He can’t make Stiles do this.

He’s pulled the envelope of money free of its hiding place and is unwrapping the plastic bag that had surrounded it when he hears Stiles’ footsteps in the hallway.

Derek lets out one silent breath of relief. Then he turns his head, waiting, and Stiles appears in the open doorway. He’s made his decision, steps into the apartment without any further hesitation, and when he reaches Derek’s side he silently accepts the envelope, opens the flap and runs long fingers over the wrapped bundles of bills.

It’s purest luck it was still there. It’s blood money, to Derek. Compensation from the Argent family for Kate’s part in the fire. He’d very nearly burnt- _thrown it away_. But then. Peter had been acting so erratically, in the months after the fire, worse after he’d finally killed Kate, and it had seemed more than reasonable to make a bolthole for himself. Derek’s age had meant his share of the insurance money had already gone into a trust, this had been the only money left Peter couldn’t have traced.

Stiles lifts his head, meets Derek’s eyes. “I’m going to stash this,” he says bluntly, and Derek hears the unspoken _I’m not leaving it somewhere within your reach_. Derek just nods. He’s not worried, he knows Stiles has committed himself, now, it’s in the steady race of his heartbeat. Controlled panic.

The kid eyes him, as if he’d been expecting an argument, and Derek suddenly needs to touch. Something to show them both this is happening, it’s inevitable. So he raises his right hand, slowly, and palms that soft, smooth jaw. Stiles goes still, and then Derek drags his thumb slowly across his bottom lip, drawing the slightest trace of moisture and a quick, indrawn breath. “Hurry back,” he rumbles, and slides his hands into his back pockets so he won’t grab.

“R-right,” the kid says, and stumbles back on coltish legs. Derek waits thirty seconds, tracking the heartbeat down onto the street, and then lets himself out of the apartment, locks the door and follows the steady sound along darkened streets.

Stiles jogs six blocks south. Running probably isn’t the smartest of ploys, but Derek can well imagine that much cash tucked under his shirt must feel like it’s marked with a neon sign and a target on Stiles’ back. Especially since he clearly needs it badly. Near the bowling alley his steps slow, and he ducks down the side of the building. Derek loses sight of him for a minute or two, climbs a fire escape and listens, and when he zeroes in on the sounds he finds Stiles half in-half out of the back of a blue Jeep. From the sounds of it he’s making some changes, popping off a compartment in the wall, maybe, or lifting up the spare tyre. Whatever it is, it’ll leave the envelope fairly well concealed, and Derek contents himself to sit and watch for possible trouble.

When he’s done, when it’s silent, Stiles doesn’t straighten, doesn’t slam the door. Derek listens carefully, hears the low, shaky pep talk the kid is giving himself with his last moments of privacy.   _You’ll be okay. Be smart. Be careful. You need this_.

His heart aches a little, and he turns his head away. The wolf might just want to mark his mate, but the man isn’t going to be able to rest until he knows why this kid is in this sort of bind. He’s smart, he’s a good kid, he _should_ have other options.

He listens to Stiles lock the Jeep and only waits long enough to confirm he’s headed back toward the apartment. He jogs along rooftops, thinking, and about halfway back to the apartment he leaps down and crosses to a late-night grocery that’s – he checks – ten minutes from closing.

He shoves inside and eyes the lanky guy behind the counter, the face full of piercings. He looks bored. Derek steps to the counter and tries a half-smile. “Hey,” he offers. “So, uh. I just got back from a long trip and I have literally nothing in my place. But I’ve got the guy of my dreams on his way over to spend the weekend, and I really need at least the basics.”

The guy is staring blankly at him. Derek slides a hundred out of his wallet and slaps it on the counter. “Do you think you could put together a few bags of essentials?” He puts another hundred on the counter beside it. “You deliver it after closing and there’s another hundred in it for you. I’m only a few blocks from here.”

Now the guy is showing some interest. He eyes Derek. “A hundred. Just for delivering.”

He shrugs. “Worth it to me.”

The first hundred slides off the counter. “I guess I can do that. Yeah. Essentials, huh?”

“I’ve been away for almost a year,” Derek says. “I’ve got absolutely nothing there.”

“Okay.” The guy says, and eyes the other hundred like he’s already spent it as Derek takes it away again. “Okay.”

“138 Randall. Apartment 4.”

“Got it.”

Derek gives him a nod and slips out of the store, runs all the way back to the apartment. He’s waiting there, not even out of breath, when Stiles knocks on the door.

He’s carrying a plastic bag. Derek eyes it questioningly. “Change of clothes,” he explains, then flushes. “And lube.”

“Good thinking.” Derek steps aside and listens to the deep breath Stiles takes before he steps into the apartment. His eyes travel over the place, it’s small enough that they’re already only a couple of paces from the couch Derek had rescued from the sidewalk, kitchen benches running along the back wall. Through the doorway there’s a bed visible, with a packing crate beside it for a table. Derek had been relieved to find he had at least had the forethought to leave behind sheets and towels and a few plates and utensils.

Stiles lets the bag of clothes slide through his fingers to the floor and turns to face Derek. “I’ve got some rules,” he says, as Derek closes in. The kid’s heart is hammering, much more fear than arousal, and there’s really only one way for Derek to ease that. Words are worthless now.

“First, no kis-”

Derek’s mouth covers his and Stiles jolts, makes a small noise and one hand clamps around the wolf’s upper arm. His fingers are tight, and Derek tilts his head, licks across Stiles’ bottom lip and swallows the noise of surprised pleasure the kid makes. It goes on and on, slickness and softness and heat and Derek moans, pulls back enough to take a quick breath and goes in again, arms wrapping around Stiles’ body. They’re pressed together at every possible point, chests, bellies, thighs and Derek has a moment to _think this is too much, we’re strangers, he’ll panic_ before Stiles brings his hands around to palm Derek’s ass and really gets into the kiss.

When it breaks, long minutes later, they’re both panting. Stiles’ mouth is wet and red, eyes blown wide. Derek forces his brain back into gear. They were doing something before they started kissing, right? “You - you were saying something.”

“Was I?”

He just nods, feels the corner of his mouth quirk. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I quite literally have absolutely no idea what it was.”

Derek shrugs. “Probably not important, then.” And dives back in for another kiss. He noses his way along that pale jaw at some point and catches a whiff of a stranger’s seed, and flinches, remembering what Stiles had been doing on that street in the first place. He pulls back. “You should shower.”

“I should?” Stiles is blinking at him.

“Yeah,” Derek replies, loosening his arms. “I’ve arranged for some groceries to be delivered, they should be here soon. You get cleaned up,” and his voice slows as he thinks of Stiles, naked in a steamy room...

“Jeez, you were not kidding about your level of horniness,” the kid says, a kind of stunned admiration in his voice. It’s probably lucky Stiles doesn’t understand that while this is partly about the mating moon, the vast majority of Derek’s reactions are just due to Stiles himself. Derek’s eyes flick back up from their survey of his body.

“No,” he says. “I really wasn’t.”

 

 


	3. Thank God It's Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jan 27 - one time offer. Send me suggestions for the very crappiest and/or most embarrassing coffee mug Derek would have dumped at his bargain basement hideaway slash shack-o-love. Extra points for a canon tie-in.
> 
> Clarification: By 'French press' I mean a coffee plunger. I wasn't sure which term a native of California would use, so I went with the more elegant sounding phrase.

 

 

The grocery guy comes through in ways Derek hadn’t even begun to imagine. “Wow,” he says, more than once, and then thinks, stunned all over again, that he is somehow starting to sound like Stiles. But seriously. He puts the cold items in the bar fridge he’d bought second hand three years ago and is rifling through another bag as the guy shuffles inside from his second trip. He’s thought of far more than just the bread and milk and cereal Derek was expecting. Hand lotion? Derek stares blankly for a moment, then sees the guy’s face and realizes it was in case they didn’t have lube. Condoms. Two toothbrushes and toothpaste. Disposable razors. Snacks. Laundry detergent. A package of really good coffee tucked in beside, ridiculously, a French press.

“It’s been in the break room for over a year,” the guy says when Derek picks it up. “No-one even knows who it belongs to.”

“Thanks,” Derek manages to say. He’s kind of overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness behind this. He glances up at grocery guy, who shrugs and shoves his hands into his back pockets.

“I just broke up with someone, had to move out and start from scratch. I just... remembered, that’s all.”

They stare at one another for a second and then the guy says, “Guy of your dreams...” Hurt flashes over his face for a second, he’s clearly thinking of his ex. “You should get a real shot at that, y’know?”

“I.” _I really don’t_ , Derek thinks. He’s just not accustomed to kindness, from anyone, let alone from strangers. And he’s certainly not accustomed to getting a shot at anything he really wants.

He’s made a point of building a shell around himself ever since the fire. Only Laura is allowed inside, though Peter can occasionally break through, and Derek keeps up a surly, near-silent front for everyone else he encounters. Laura scolds him about it every time they Skype. “But this- this is- really terrific.”

There’s a pause, not exactly awkward, and then Derek is reaching for his wallet because the guy has totally earned it when, “Holy cow,” comes a familiar voice over Derek’s shoulder, “at least we’re definitely _not_ going to starve.”

Stiles is in the doorway, towel hitched around his hips. Droplets of water still cover his shoulders and he looks fucking _edible_. A second later he catches sight of the grocery guy and flushes _all over_ , and Derek is instantly hard. “Uh,” Stiles says, and shuffles back a little, almost out of sight. “Hey,” he manages weakly, hand tightening on the towel.

“Hey,” the guy says, in Stiles direction, and offers Derek a smug half-smile and an eyebrow-raise somehow implying _yeah, nice_ as he takes a step toward the door. “Have a good weekend.”

Derek manages not to be a jealous asshole and just hands over the well-earned hundred with a wry look, closes and locks the door behind the guy and turns.

“So,” Stiles begins faintly. “Sorry for flashing your delivery guy?”

Derek’s already forgotten grocery guy. His eyes are fixed on Stiles’ naked chest, the line of his throat, his elegant hands. “I’m gonna blow you now,” Derek says, pulling his shirt over his head as he crosses into the bedroom. “And then, when you’re nice and loose from coming, I’m gonna fuck you.”

“O-kay,” Stiles says faintly, eyes blown already with arousal, and damn, Derek feels about ten feet tall that the kid can respond to him like this, despite the things he must have done and seen since he started down this path.

He drops to his knees and watches, heavy lidded, as Stiles slumps back against the wall with a soft sound of disbelief. For the first time in a long time Derek is thinking about how he looks, hoping Stiles likes what he’s seeing, finds Derek sexy instead of threatening. He does, if the soft run of _god oh god oh god_ that is falling from his lips is any indicator.

Derek reaches out a hand to circle Stiles’ ankle, still slightly damp, and runs his cupped hand up his calf, fingertips lingering at the delicate skin behind his knee, sliding up under the towel and Stiles’ breath hitches. Derek grins faintly, his other hand sweeping up to tug at the towel and it unravels without warning, leaving a flushed, naked Stiles at Derek’s mercy.

Just where he wants him.

He leans in and takes a deep breath of that wonderful Stiles-smell, half drunk on it, dips lower and noses the balls hanging loosely, lips at them and hums in satisfaction at the surge in pheromones that fill the air. Then he looks up, locks eyes with Stiles and licks a deliberate stripe up the kid’s hard cock. It’s lucky Derek’s had so much practice ignoring his own hard-ons.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles manages. His hands are gripped tightly into fists, and he’s panting as he stares down at Derek.

A thought strikes Derek and he leans back. “This your first blow job?”

Stiles nods dumbly. “A-amazingly enough,” he manages, “people are not lining up around the block to pay me money in order to suck my dick.”

The flash of possessive satisfaction that rips through him shouldn’t be startling but it is. Derek smiles slowly. “Good,” he says, and gets to it.

He tries everything, can’t help but listen for the tiny hitching breaths that tell him when Stiles really likes something. He plays a little, running his tongue along the underside and sucking lightly on the head, spreads his palms wide on the kids’ thighs and has to take a breath, slotting away for future reference how much he really likes the look of his own tanned forearms against the pale skin there.

He noses down again and gently sucks one ball into his mouth, then the other, gets a high whine for that and grins to himself. He slants another glance up and Stiles is staring helplessly at him, chest and face flushed, eyes full of wonder. Without breaking eye contact Derek licks his way up Stiles’ cock and takes it into his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles moans, and his knees give a little. Derek steadies him with a firm grip on his hips and takes a deep breath in through his nose. He hasn’t done this in a while, but he’d gone through a definite cocksucking phase there in his late teens and he’s determined to make this memorable. He slides his lips down and down, keeps breathing and sucks hard. It won’t take much – Stiles is, after all, a teenager getting his first blow job. He swallows around the head of Stiles’ cock and soaks in the _shit, fuck, I’m close_ Stiles chokes out. Derek traces the vein with his tongue and that’s it, game over, Stiles lets out a wrenching groan and curls forward, gasping with each pulse as he comes.

Derek swallows it, eyes closed and hands gripping tight. Stiles’ legs are wobbly as hell and once his actual orgasm has stopped Derek gentles his hands and pulls back a little, and as he’d suspected, Stiles slides down the wall, cock slipping out of Derek’s mouth as he goes. He sprawls on the floor in front of Derek in a grinning, satisfied heap.

Derek does some deep breathing to pull himself back from the edge. It’s ridiculous how much he wants this young man, this _kid_.

“This, this is where you’re gonna fuck me, right,” Stiles manages, chest heaving, and his tone is right, rough and dirty and half-teasing, but there’s a hitch in his heartbeat, in his scent that tells Derek he’s suddenly scared.

He freezes for a moment as rage sweeps through him, because he knows what that little hitch means. Someone, some _asshole_ , handled this kid roughly, or didn’t take no for an answer, and here he is, gritting his teeth, ready to suffer through another round of the same.

Derek keeps his eyes downcast, waiting for the blue haze of rage to pass, for his eyes to return to normal. Mind racing, he reaches for the fly of his jeans and forces his voice out, rough and low and full of heat. “Or maybe,” he says, “I’ve decided I want to make a mess all over that sweet face of yours.” By the time he’s finished saying it, the idea has him twitching and so when he looks up, he knows Stiles will believe him, won’t find any compassion or concern on Derek’s face to make him defensive.

“You gonna mark me, big guy?” Stiles says, smirking. His heartbeat steadies, and the languid line of his body where he is slumped, sated, against the wall has Derek breathing deep in primal satisfaction. He has _pleased his mate_ , and so he straightens, hand moving swiftly to draw his cock out of his boxers, stroking himself roughly, just the way he likes.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice low. “Yeah I’m gonna mark you, kid.” Stiles flutters his lashes in reply, licks his lips in the filthiest way possible and tilts his head like he’s offering his throat to the wolf. Derek gasps, electrified at the thought, and it’s soon, ridiculously soon, that’s he’s coming with a harsh moan, striping all over Stiles’ face, his throat, his chest.

 

 


	4. Freaky Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as noted in the previous chapter, I'm looking for a suggested lame coffee mug Derek would have left at his skeevy Apartment of Solitude. The more embarrassing, the better.

 

They remain as they are for a while, Derek catching his breath and Stiles relaxing slowly, eyes running over Derek with equal parts curiosity and salacious interest. Derek has just enough time to thank his lucky stars that Stiles’ teenage libido will be able to keep up with the mating moon before Stiles says, “So. Uh. Shower?”

“Definitely,” Derek replies and pulls Stiles to his feet. He blinks in surprise and seems to suddenly notice his own nudity, flushing in a completely enticing manner. Derek’s dick takes an immediate interest and he rolls his eyes at himself. He nudges Stiles toward the bathroom and starts the water immediately, remembering from bitter experience just how long it takes to heat up.

Stiles leans back against the bathroom wall as Derek strips the rest of the way and only when he glances up does Derek realize the kid’s still covered in his come – streaks on his face and throat, down his chest. The wolf’s a natural part of him, he accepts all the instincts that come with it, but every now and then it just feels _weird_ when that behaviour collides with his human life.

He flushes and turns to grab a cloth, though it takes a good three minutes to find one buried amongst the towels under the sink. He seems to have left a _lot_ of towels – probably anticipating bleeding wounds. He holds the cloth under the shower - yep, water’s still cold - and offers it to Stiles, who seems slightly amused by Derek’s sudden wish to clean him up.

“Thanks,” he manages, and wipes down his face and chest. Derek just nods, feeling ten kinds of awkward, and finally he just climbs into the shower, forcing himself not to flinch under the icy spray. Stiles, of course, joins him, with a shocked, “ _Jesus_ ,” and Derek shifts to catch most of the water on his shoulders.

“Well,” Stiles says, and leans back against the wall. “Aren’t _you_ the gentleman.”

Derek stares at him. He’s done a lot of talking tonight, way more than he usually would, and post-orgasm he seems to have found the well has run dry. He steps closer to Stiles instead and does what he’s been resisting for the last five minutes, he kisses him. Stiles relaxes against him immediately and they stay like that, pressed together and exploring each other sweetly until finally Stiles says, “We should probably clean up. Uh. Soap?”

Derek glances around. Shit. “Still in the grocery bag,” he sighs. He never had finished unpacking the damn supplies.

He ignores Stiles’ snort of amusement and strides into the lounge room, bare-assed and freezing. In the doorway of the bathroom, however, he halts. Stiles is under the spray, face turned up, and when he turns to glance at Derek his eyelashes are dark with moisture, lips wet and gleaming. He raises his eyebrows. “Any luck?”

Derek sighs and raises the bottle in his hand. “Green Tea Ultra Body Wash with Organic Goats’ Milk.” he reads, utterly deadpan and Stiles laughs and laughs.

“Okay,” he sputters, and pulls Derek back into the shower. “This could mean that either he took one look at this physique and decided you’re a man who treats his body like a temple, or-”

“Or?”

Stiles snickers, “Or this is an overpriced item they’ve been trying to unload for months.”

“I’ll take door number two,” Derek murmurs, and pours some of the stuff into his hand. Amusement dies pretty quickly when he starts to work up a lather over Stiles’ shoulders and Stiles catches the excess and moves it to Derek’s chest.

It doesn’t take long from there, probably thirty seconds later and they are openly grinding against one another, erections sliding and Derek is biting gently at Stiles bottom lip while Stiles gasps into his mouth. “Fuck, shit,” he moans, “oh god, that, _that_ , yeah-”

Derek’s soapy hands slide down Stiles’ back to palm his ass and the kid moans again, lower and rougher this time, “I’m close,” he manages, and his body writhes sinuously against Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek rumbles back, and then opens his mouth and kisses Stiles deeply, utterly filthy, his fingers digging in to the two perfect globes. Stiles slides a hand up Derek’s neck and sinks a hand into his wet hair, grip surprisingly strong and rough.

Stiles’ entire body shudders against his and he cries out, “God, _oh_ , fuck, I’m-”

Derek growls and shifts his leg just enough to grind against Stiles’ hip as he bites down on the tendons that are cording in the kid’s neck and that’s it, game over, he comes in a hot rush all over Stiles’s belly.

And then they’re panting through the afterglow _again_ , leaning up against the shower recess instead of the bedroom wall.

“Can you die from sex?” Stiles wonders, sounding completely undisturbed at the prospect.

Derek half-smiles, then flinches as the boiler abruptly quits. “I don’t know but I might possibly die from this freezing fucking water.” They clean up swiftly and get out of there, drying themselves in silence and it’s only then that Derek looks up and notices all over again the weariness in Stiles’ face that he’d noticed on the street two hours earlier.

Suddenly it’s weird again, and Stiles is eyeing the bed like it’s some kind of femme fatale with poisonous lips. He _wants_ to but he _doesn’t_. Derek doesn’t even need an explanation. They may have had hot sex, but sleeping with someone is a whole other level of intimacy, the kind where you suddenly think _I only just met this guy_.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants from his small stash and gestures to the bed. “I’m not tired,” he says with perfect truth. “You go ahead and catch some sleep, if you want. I’m going to order Chinese, whatever I don’t eat I’ll stick in the fridge so if you wake up at midnight or whatever, feel free.”

Stiles eyes him warily, halfway through pulling his boxers back on.

“You’re not-”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

Stiles straightens. Hesitates for a long moment. Then says, “No, it’s fine.” He shrugs.

“You sure?”

He’s staring at Derek curiously, and then offers a smile so ridiculously sweet Derek swears there are fucking bluebirds tweeting around the kid’s head and flowers springing up at his feet wherever he steps. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m sure.”

“Okay. Well. Uh. I’m still gonna -eat first.”

Stiles just nods and takes a step toward the bed. He puts one knee on the mattress and glances over. “Uh. See you later, then?”

Derek rolls his eyes at the awkwardness. “Yeah,” he husks as Stiles folds his length down on Derek’s sheets. “Later.”

 


	5. Come Saturday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I didn't want to wait any longer to post this chapter so I'm declaring a winner of the coffee mug comp. Thanks so much to _char for the suggestion. It took me in a whole other direction (I had been thinking of the kind of giveaway mug so lame no-one wants it) and brought Laura back into the story for me.

 

Derek opens his eyes and there is a sight to tempt the strongest of wills – a pale wrist, the soft inner skin exposed, resting close enough to his mouth to taste.

Obviously it’s no co-incidence he ended up here.

At first he’d genuinely intended to sleep on the couch. Anyone who works the kind of shifts Derek does learns to sleep anywhere, anytime. He’d wasted a good two hours on the couch, nowhere near sleep before he’d admitted he was kidding himself. He wanted the closeness, he wanted his _mate_. Even a temporary mate.

So he’d compromised. He’d tried to exile himself to one side of the bed only, had ceded the single pillow to Stiles without a thought, but in sleep his body had sought out that scent that will always draw him in. He takes in a deep, greedy breath even as he thinks it, and lips gently at the blue vein beneath the skin. He’s hungry again, the need growing now that today is the actual full moon. Bad enough last night, when he’d stayed awake until the early hours of the morning and jacked off while listening for Stiles’ breathing like a creeper. But the kid had needed rest, and Derek hadn’t had the heart to wake him. So he’d pleasured himself instead, and it had gotten him through the night.

But now. It was morning. And Stiles was. Right. _There_.

He’s just resting his teeth against Stiles’ wrist when he hears that familiar voice. “You know, when I opened my eyes this morning I was sure I was still dreaming.”

Derek turns his head. Their eyes meet and Stiles smiles a little, still sleepy and sweet. “Back when I was figuring out I liked boys as much as girls, I kept having these repetitive dreams. They freaked me out at first, but once I figured it out, they turned into my favourites. And they looked a hell of a lot like this. A hot guy, naked, clearly into me.”

Derek bites gently on Stiles’ forearm, still watching.

His breath catches but Stiles goes on. “Only difference between this and real life- well, two differences. First, you’re way hotter than my imagination ever supplied.”

Derek flicks up his eyebrows. _And?_

“And in the dream, I always had a nice healthy mouthful of cock,” Stiles adds, and Derek’s entire body catches ablaze. It’s the filthiest thing he’s ever heard Stiles say, and he has to just breathe for a moment, which is how he explains Stiles managing to roll him over and straddle Derek’s very willing body.

The new position presses their hard cocks together and Stiles grinds just lightly as he says, “Now, I have been here for a whole night, hours and hours and in all that time, all the cocksucking has been yours. You dirty,” he grinds, “rotten,” circles his hips, “withholder.”

“You needed permission?” Derek gasps, hands curling around Stiles’ thighs.

The kid grins and slithers down Derek’s body without another word.

Derek lifts his head because there’s no way he’s not going to watch this and fuck, it could all be over in seconds because the sight of Stiles, that soft sweet mouth parting as he deliberately licks his lips, watching Derek the whole time, then slides his mouth over the head of Derek’s dick- fuck, _fuck_ , he slams his eyes shut before he loses it completely.

“God,” he moans, already undone and _shit_ , he is going to say something stupid, he just _knows_ it. He presses a hand over his mouth to stop it and then his eyes fly open on an idea.

“Stop,” he says, “wait.”

He glances down again – _mistake_ – and shudders and then Stiles is pulling off with a pop and saying, _“Seriously?”_

“You ever try a sixty-nine?” Derek says without thinking and Stiles’ eyes go very wide.

“Uh.” He says, and licks his lips again, this time with much less deliberate intent. Derek looks away swiftly before he loses it, focuses on Stiles’ tented boxers instead. “No.”

“You want to?”

“Yeah,” and this time when Derek looks Stiles is pushing up to kneeling on the bed, nodding slowly. “I think I could definitely, uh, get into that-”

Derek’s done talking. He pushes the kid onto his back, kisses him deep and slow until he makes a noise of surrender in the back of his throat and then Derek leans back. Their eyes lock for a second before Derek starts kissing his way down Stiles’ chest, hands busy tugging off the kids’ boxers while Stiles lifts his hips to help. He nudges until Stiles is diagonal on the sheets, because there is just no way to sell falling off the bed as sexy, and he’s seen way too many embarrassing sex injuries on the job to ignore the chance.

He turns on the bed, nuzzling his way down Stiles’ belly and loving the sudden swift beat of the kid’s heartbeat in his ears, so close to the artery. He wraps an arm around Stiles’ hip and tugs so the kid rolls onto his side, flush up against Derek’s much warmer body, and then glances down toward Stiles. Stiles, who is staring down the length of his own body, panting, eyes wide.

“I have really got to stop thinking _this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me_ ,” he murmurs against Derek’s thigh. “Because I keep being wrong and we’re not even halfway through which means there’s still time left for me to have a heart attack-”

“Stop talking,” Derek says and licks at the head of Stiles’ cock.

“Oh fuck,” he says faintly, and noses forward toward Derek’s straining erection.

Derek takes Stiles in deep and just breathes for a moment, overwhelmed by scent and skin and the feeling of closeness. The same soap, their combined scents on the sheets and the sheer rightness of Stiles himself are completely screwing with his control, his emotions. Then his cock disappears into wet heat and he moans, hears an answering groan from Stiles and shit, this is not going to take long _at all._

He runs his tongue around the hot length in his mouth, tries to ignore his own rising pleasure and slides his hands up the long lean thighs in front of him. He can hear Stiles breathing deep, half-whining each time, and Derek sucks hard for a moment, drawing back along the length as he does and Stiles’ mouth stutters around him before Derek softens his lips and slides back down. His hands keep moving, sliding around until he can grip the soft smooth globes of Stiles’ ass and he squeezes, moans again as Stiles tongues his slit and only just stops his hips from jerking, _hard,_ into that clever mouth.

Derek’s wrist knocks against something, he realizes a beat later it’s the tube of lube he’d used to jerk off last night and just like that he’s decided. He fumbles madly with it, gets some on at least one finger and slides up to Stiles’ pucker without hesitating. Derek’s close, _so_ close, and but he wants Stiles to come first. His finger slides inside without much resistance and Stiles’ hips buck, driving his cock into Derek’s throat as he makes an incoherent sound around Derek’s dick.

Derek swallows around him, curls his finger and Stiles groans harshly, mouth slipping away for a moment as he comes and then he’s back and he sucks hard, sucks and _sucks_ with each pulse of his climax and Derek squeezes his eyes shut and clenches every part of his body as his orgasm seems to rip upwards from his feet though every part of his body until he’s left limp, dazed and gasping with his face pressed into Stiles’ thigh.

The room is utterly silent, apart from their mingled harsh breathing.

Derek gathers himself together and crawls up the bed like a new-born colt, shaky and directionless. He collapses beside Stiles, who flings out a hand to rest on his neck and another couple of minutes pass while they recover.

Stiles, unsurprisingly, is the first to speak. “Jesus,” he says.

Derek waits for more. There’s usually more.

“Just. Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Derek husks back. The room falls silent again.

 

***

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Stiles says, and takes another huge sip of coffee. “But I kind of want to date your delivery guy.” His eyelids actually flutter when he inhales the (apparently) blessed aroma of coffee. Derek is counting himself lucky grocery guy thought of coffee at all, since it looks like Stiles is one of those can’t-live-without-caffeine types.

Stiles doesn’t seem to notice he’s using the Keep Calm and Think of Shirtless Jacob coffee mug Laura, the _cow_ , must have planted here just before she left. It’s obviously brand new, the only thing in the apartment that _is_ new, which implies that Derek _bought the fucking thing on purpose_. She is gonna _pay_.

Derek hesitates, then says, “I don’t like your chances. He’s got us down as some kind of written-in-the-stars romance.”  He glances down at the table and realizes Stiles has already eaten a bowl of cereal, rinsed out the only bowl and spoon and placed them back on the table for Derek to use, next to the box of Lucky Charms and the milk. He blinks, utterly dumbfounded.

To someone with Derek’s history, that small gesture feels a _lot_ like a written-in-the-stars romance.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, “Uh?”

He deliberately turns to the fridge before he says, “I told him I had a shot at the guy of my dreams and paid him to drop off some essentials.” He knows without looking Stiles’ eyebrows have just hit the stratosphere. “Apparently he’s a closet romantic.”

“Or a little challenged, if he still believes _that_ story.”

Derek turns back, juice bottle in his hands and raises his own eyebrow. “Oh?” The note of cynicism in Stiles’ voice doesn’t suit him.

Stiles blinks. “Well, seriously. Having seen me?” He waves a hand between them, “And _you?_ You’re like, _so_ out of my league, I mean, your dream guy would be someone like Zachary Quinto or one of the Hemsworth brothers or something.” Stiles’ eyes glaze over a little and he says dreamily, “Hmm.”

“Are you seriously picturing me fucking Spock right now?” Derek demands in disbelief.

Stiles jumps guiltily. “Uh, no?”

Derek is fighting back a grin. This kid is ridiculous. “So you think I’m out of your league.” Derek ...isn’t sure what to do with that. “You’re wrong,” he says simply, and goes to the cupboard for a glass.

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Hey, who paid who here?” Derek retorts, and instantly feels like an ass.

There’s a moment of silence and then, “Right,” Stiles says, quiet and brittle.

 _Shit_. Derek closes his eyes and offers a silent apology to his mother, who would be furious with him right now for being such a thoughtless ass. Stiles is a sweet kid, for all his mouthiness and his bravado, Derek has no idea how he has survived this long working the streets and still stayed mostly intact.

He pours a half-glass of juice and drinks it in one go. Puts the glass down and tells himself, _Man up_. He ambles across to the table and pulls Stiles to his feet.

He has no idea what to say to make it right, he’s utterly crap at talking. Clearly.

He kisses Stiles instead. Soft, gentle as he can manage, trying to put _sorry_ and _don’t think less of you_ and _want you_ in the slant of his lips and the soft drag of his stubble. When he pulls back Stiles is flushed, eyes downcast, and hard as iron.

“Thanks for making breakfast,” Derek says.

Stiles raises his brows. Glances past Derek to the table and shakes his head. “Man,” he says, “your standards are worryingly low.”

Derek lets that one go, takes a seat instead and lets Stiles talk. He half tunes-out, a little hypnotised by the gentle rise-and-fall of Stiles’ voice and the unpredictable gestures of his hands. Derek is more than a little hot for Stiles’ hands. When he registers distress, however, he tunes back in immediately.

”Wait a minute. How did I not- no _way_ ,” he says, and Derek straightens, glancing around for a threat.

“What?”

“ _No TV?”_ Stiles pales, staring around the apartment like it’s personally betrayed him. “What the hell?”

He sinks back and relaxes. “You didn’t notice last night?” Derek asks, bemused.

“I had other things to focus on last night,” he shoots back.

Right. Pretending he wasn’t resigned to a forced ass-fucking, Derek thinks miserably.

“ _How_ can there be _no TV?”_

Derek maybe should have anticipated this anguish at being parted from the basics of teenage survival. “I uh, hardly ever come here. Usually I read.” _And jerk off_ , he thinks wryly.

“I love a good book too, but man, what the hell did you think we were gonna _do_ all day?” Then Stiles flushes beet red. “Unless you’re on some kind of- _shit_ , are you taking something to up your sex drive? Because, y’know, a body can only take so much-”

“Stiles,” Derek says, “calm down. I’m not on anything. I have the normal sex drive of any other young man who finds their partner sexually attractive.” Okay, that may have been a _teensy_ lie.

“You find me sexually attractive,” Stiles says faintly.

“You didn’t intuit that _last night?_ ” Derek raises an eyebrow.

“I thought, I don’t know, I thought you were maybe closing your eyes and thinking of Ryan Gosling or something. “

“No. I was looking at you,” Derek says patiently. “ _You_ turn me on. If that blonde kid had been the only one standing on that street I would have walked on by without stopping.”

“Huh.” Stiles is staring. He seems to have forgotten how to blink.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a TV,” Derek says after the silence stretches out long enough for even _him_ to feel awkward.

“Yeah. That. Um. Suddenly seems less important,” Stiles replies. Then his eyes widen. “What did you call me?” He skitters away swiftly, until his back slams into the kitchen counter. “How the _fuck_ do you know my-”

“You said it on the street last night,” Derek says swiftly, raising his voice just enough to be heard. “‘Genius move, Stiles’,” he quotes, and raises his hands in the universal gesture for _I am not a kidnapper/rapist/serial killer/terrorist/international art thief/werewolf._ He tries to make himself look smaller and non-threatening, which is no mean feat for a beta werewolf in the prime of his life, especially one who has to actually consciously remember _not_ to scowl.

Genius move, Stiles, he can see the kid’s mouth silently repeating. “Right,” he finally says, very softly. “First of many dumb moves I made last night, apparently.”

“Was Sam a comic book character?” Derek asks. He really, really wants to get them back on an even keel right now. He – selfishly – does not want Stiles to think of Derek as a bad decision.

 _“What?”_ Stiles gives him a look like, _are you insane?_

“I made a bet with myself. About where the name came from.”

Stiles snorts. “A- no. But, close, I guess.” His breathing is slowing, though he’s still pressed up against the kitchen bench. “Sam Gamgee.”

“Lord of the Rings.”

“Right.” Stiles folds his arms across his chest. He takes a few deep breaths and doesn’t run when Derek lowers his hands. “Which we could totally watch together _if you had a TV_.”

Back to where they started. Derek sighs. It’s progress of a sort, he thinks wryly.

Stiles is watching him closely, Derek can tell he’s thinking hard. He’s about to say something, mouth half-open, when Derek’s phone rings in his pocket. He sighs, but he has to answer. It’s never easy to get an entire weekend off and if someone’s called in sick he might have to cover. “Yeah,” he gruffs out.

It’s the courier, with the rest of Stiles’ money. Derek makes arrangements to meet him at a coffee shop that is, co-incidentally, only a few blocks from the bowling alley where Stiles’ jeep is parked. He pockets his phone and looks over at Stiles. “Do you want to come with me?”

Stiles heartbeat has sped up again, but Derek thinks it’s the reminder of the money more than Derek himself. “Uh. Yeah,” he says, and shrugs. “I guess.”

Derek just nods. “I’ll go put on some pants.”

“Shirt might be a good idea too,” Stiles calls after him. “If you don’t want to be responsible for innocent young ladies walking into traffic when you cross the street.”

Derek doesn’t smile until he’s in the other room and out of sight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.cafepress.com/+keep_calm_and_think_of_shirtless_jacob_large_mug,710641283


	6. Saturday Sun

 

 

They walk down the street side by side in silence. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start monologuing. “So, it’s kinda nice to be outside. I sort of thought, maybe, uh.”

“You were picturing a dungeon? Chains? Time-locks on the doors? I never said I was going to lock you in a tower, Stiles.”

“Did you just make me Rapunzel in that scenario? _No way_ am I Rapunzel.”

Derek suppresses a Red Riding Hood reference with difficulty and instead shoots a glance at Stiles’ near-shorn hair and gets an elbow in the ribs for his trouble.

Stiles smirks sidelong at Derek. “Well, you were pretty insistent with the whole, _days too_ , thing. I definitely thought it was going to be a shut-in kind of situation. How the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t some kind of freak?”

“You feel confident all of a sudden that I’m not a freak?” Derek has no idea why he’s pushing this. He just knows that, oddly enough, he likes hearing Stiles talk. Laura would be amazed. All in a rush, he’s desperate to talk to her, to tell her he’s found someone that can make him laugh and want to touch at the same time.

“Well there’s the inherent freakiness of you finding _me_ , of all people, _attractive_ , but hey, everyone has their kinks. Luckily for me, mine is superhotness so that’s working out well for both of us so far-”

“Why do you find it odd I’d find you attractive?” Derek interrupts. Because this really, _really_ bothers him. And he gets the feeling it isn’t the working-as-a-hooker thing that’s caused it.

Stiles raises his brows. “Uh.”

For a moment he thinks Stiles is simply going to wave a hand in the general vicinity of his body and consider that explanation enough. Derek just looks at him, silently insistent.

“I don’t know, dude,” he sighs. Shrugs. “Just, y’know, I’m kind of this total _nobody_ at-” he stops suddenly and bites his lip.

“- school,” Derek supplies with a sigh.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips guiltily and Derek loses a few seconds watching it. He is going to _hell_.

He gathers his few remaining brain cells and gets back to the conversation. “High school is not the entire world.”

“I know that. My D- I know that,” he says, heart rate escalating suddenly.

 _Dad_ , Derek thinks and files that away.

“I know I won’t always be in high school, and things will change. But. It’s kind of hard to feel that way when you’re _there_ , y’know?”

Derek wouldn’t know. He barely remembers high school, everything overshadowed by the fire and the aftermath. Though he does remember wanting badly enough to fit in that he’d met up with Kate Argent after school one day for a furtive make-out session that had left him feeling sick and very, very convinced that whatever he was looking for, it wasn’t anything Kate had.

Okay. He maybe _does_ remember that desperation to belong.

“And everyone else is pairing up, and- I’m just. Not.”

 _You are now_ , Derek thinks immediately and then looks away because- _no_. Stiles hasn’t agreed to that. Has no idea  of where Derek’s werewolf instincts are taking him, of the leaps of imagination he’s been taking without Stiles’ knowledge or consent.

And then he stumbles because suddenly, horrifyingly, he realizes that what Stiles is talking about implies _no experience whatsoever_. He can feel his breath coming faster at the idea that maybe Stiles’ only sexual experiences have been on the fucking _streets_. _Jesus_.

“Derek? You okay, dude?”

Stiles steadies him with a hand on his arm and Derek just stares. _No, please no_ , he is thinking and then Stiles says, “This is the place, right?”

Derek glances around at the sign and nods. Licks his lips. “Wait here,” he says and ducks inside. He needs a minute to pull himself together and he sure as shit doesn’t want the courier getting a glance at the teenager who has accompanied Derek to his mysterious pickup.

The dude is already waiting at a table, bored, and Derek takes the locked bag from the guy and signs the electronic pad that is shoved in his direction. “Thanks,” he manages but the guy is already gone, on to his next delivery. Derek stays there a minute, breathing deep, head in his hands.

There’s nothing he can do about what’s happened to Stiles in the past. He can’t fix any of the wrongs in his own history, let alone someone else’s. It’s been the first bitter lesson of his life, learned young. But he can treat the kid right in the here and now. Starting with not making him feel like shit for taking the money he obviously needs.

Derek buys two chocolate brownies and a large triple-shot espresso which he shoves in Stiles’ direction without a word when he gets back onto the street.

“Uh. Thanks,” Stiles manages, looking a little startled.

Derek holds up the bakery bag with its chocolatey scent and while Stiles is focused on it, nudges the bag of cash into his other hand. “I’ll warm up a brownie for you back at the apartment.”

And then he walks off without a backward glance.

He pauses once he’s rounded the corner and leans against the wall of an empty restaurant. _I’m voluntarily spending time with someone who can’t stop talking_ , he texts to Laura. He slides the phone into his back pocket and resumes walking. He’s made it two more blocks when his phone beeps.

_Holy shit, little bro. Actual TIME_

He Googles the acronym and snorts. _Do not call me,_ he sends back swiftly. _You’ll kill the mood_. And just as well he did, considering the next message.

_OMFG, just realized the date! U sneaky shit_

_Do not call me._

_Srsly D, this is really good. Ur going to have 2talk 2me about this 1day, urlize?_

He rolls his eyes at the text speak. _It’s just a weekend_ , he sends back. _He doesn’t know the whole story_.

_So TELL HIM._

_Too soon._

There’s a longer break, then, long enough that he makes it all the way to the apartment, up the stairs and inside.

_You deserve 2b happy._

 

***

 

Derek picks up Stiles’ heartbeat down on the street and crosses to unlock the front door.  He goes back to the kitchen, hits the power button on the microwave and returns to the sink.

Stiles lets himself in and locks the door behind him, already mid-word and probably gesturing wildly too. “Honestly. Are you- _challenged_ or something? You just shove six grand in cash into my hand and _walk off?_ How did you know I wasn’t gonna just, take off with it? Just because you know my _nickname_ doesn’t mean you’d be able to f-”

“I trust your word,” Derek says, and pushes the plate holding the brownie toward Stiles. Stiles who now has a laptop bag slung across his chest. Derek raises his brows and Stiles flushes as he pulls it off and sets it gently on the table, practically falls into the chair. “ _No TV_ , man,” he repeats. “ _Three days_. Not happening, no matter how much of a sex bomb The Stiles apparently is.”

Derek turns away and grins to himself as he dries the breakfast dishes. “Don’t call yourself The Stiles,” he says. “You get exponentially less hot every time you refer to yourself in the third person. Trust Derek on this.”

That gets him a genuine laugh, and Derek hugs it to himself. He’s not a funny guy, but he could get used to that sound. Then Stiles says around a mouthful of brownie. “Plus?” Derek glances over his shoulder when he pauses and the kid grins, wide and gross. “ _Porn._ ”

Derek snorts out a laugh he can’t even begin to contain.

***

 

The laptop is perched on the packing-crate-table (now situated in front of the couch) and the Fellowship are not long out of Rivendell when Stiles says suddenly, “You’re kinda weird, y’know?”

“Am I.”

“ _Yes.”_ Stiles says it very confidently. “Do you do this with all the hookers you pick up? Blow them to heaven and back? Snuggle on the couch after? Tell ‘em you think they’re hot?”

Derek goes still. He’s not gonna lie but he’s not sure how this will change things, if he tells the truth, and he doesn’t want to lose what little time he has with Stiles. “No,” he says in the end.

“No, you’re not normally this nice? Or no they’re not all as hot as me?” he’s shaking his head, grinning at that last one. Derek takes a deep breath.

“No I’ve never picked up a hooker before.”

There’s silence. “I’m sorry, _what_ did you say?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever paid for it,” Derek replies.

“I- have no idea why I’m surprised by that,” Stiles says slowly. He shifts sideways on the couch and stares at Derek’s profile. “It never made any sense to me that you’d need a hooker for this. I’m pretty sure you could walk into any bar in America, buy someone a drink and get what you’re getting from me.”

“No,” Derek says, keeping his eyes on the screen, “I couldn’t.” There’s a fluttering of panic in his chest, and he says deliberately, “And I don’t want to explain why. Not right now.”

“O-kay,” Stiles says.

Derek almost smiles at that. “Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s _that_ simple. I picked you up because I didn’t want to talk about why I was picking you up.”

Stiles nods. His eyes are still watchful, but he’s relaxed slightly in the past twenty seconds. Maybe because he’s been expecting Derek to be more of an asshole from the start, and now he’s been shut down, conversation-wise, this feels more familiar.

“Well this explains a lot, at least,” he says, shifting so that he’s straddling Derek on the couch. “Why you’re being so sweet to me, for a start. I kept thinking maybe I was a stand-in for a boyfriend you just broke up with, or something. But instead you honestly don’t have the first clue what you’re doing, so you’ve been treating me like any other date.”

“I’ve been treating you exactly the way I want to,” Derek replies. He’s hard already, but he’s not about to accept that Stiles should automatically be treated like dirt just because he’s doing this professionally.

“Okay,” he says softly, and kisses Derek. “Okay then.” He stares intently into Derek’s eyes and then quirks a brow, tentative and questioning. “You picked me up at a club.” He hesitates. Derek stares back calmly, not at all opposed to the fantasy. “Overcome by all of _this_ ,” Stiles waves a hand down the length of his own body, “you asked to buy me a drink and I said, _I guess one drink can’t hurt_.”

“You thought I was a surly asshole,” Derek says. He can picture it so very clearly, and Stiles smirks but doesn’t disagree.

“We drank shots, and you loosened up enough that we danced. I was overcome by your smooth moves on the dance floor, enough to look past the GQ cover model look and generally sour disposition,” Stiles goes on, and Derek smiles faintly. Even in their mutual fantasy, he’s a sharp-tongued little smartass. “You asked me to come home with you,” his eyes flick back up to Derek’s for a second and he says softly, “I don’t normally do that.”

“And I haven’t done that sort of thing in years,” Derek replied, just as soft. A truth for a truth. He reaches up to cup Stiles’ face in his hand. “But I wanted you. I didn’t even see anyone else.”

“Hm.” Stiles eyes fall to half-mast and he presses into Derek’s hand, just a little. “I said yes, even though I didn’t know you, could hardly believe I was taking the risk,” he murmurs, “and you brought me here, to your apartment.” He stares down at his own hands for a moment, eyes hidden as he breathes unevenly. Then he blinks, drags Derek’s shirt up over his head and looks his fill, eyes darkening as he runs his fingertips over Derek’s pecs, and up to his throat.

“And here we are,” Derek murmurs.

“Damn,” Stiles near-whispers. “Look at you. You are just-” his mouth twitches. “A near occasion of sin,” he mutters.

“What?”

“I don’t know, I heard it somewhere,” he shrugs and strokes his hands down Derek’s arms, “but it sums you up just fine. I swear I could be sitting at my grandma’s dinner table with a dozen nuns disapproving of me and I would still be hard pressed not to have carnal thoughts about you.”

Derek tries to unravel that image. “Um. Thank you?”

He laughs. “No, thank _you_. And I promise, I’m gonna be the best fake-boyfriend you ever had, baby.” He leans in close, biting his lip, and Derek tries to roll his eyes but ends up just holding tight and kissing back. Stiles pulls back, breathes in his ear, “I’m gonna treat you so good you’re never gonna want to let me go.”

And a small, needy sound escapes Derek that he’s completely helpless to stop. He can’t joke about that. He’s going to let Stiles go, _of course_ he is. He’s _eighteen_ , he’s never even had a boyfriend, he’s unaware of werewolves and their messy world of packs and alliances.

Stiles has his whole life ahead of him. But Derek really, _really_ doesn’t fucking _want to_ let him go.

He turns his head and presses his face to Stiles’ throat, breathes him in. Stiles, startled, goes very still, and Derek feels the hot rush of humiliation wash over his face.

Then those long, elegant fingers come up to cup his head, and Stiles’ lips brush Derek’s temple. “ _Okay_ ,” he says softly, “okay.” They stay like that for a long time, then he hears the quick intake of breath that indicates speech. Stiles hesitates, then says, “Come to bed.”

They – snuggle, there’s really no other word for it – for a while, and then, inevitably, things get hot and heavy. Derek’s not out of control, but the full moon is tonight, and he’s certainly at the mercy of his hormones more than usual. Besides, it’s all so new, there’s still so much to discover about Stiles.  Like the sensitivity of his flat brown nipples.

“Don’t make me. _Oh, hm_.” When Derek glances up, Stiles is writhing on the sheets and biting his lips.

“What?”

“I’ll- talk. I’ll say things. Stupid things,” and he’s flushing now. Looking away.

“I like it,” Derek says nosing up his throat, licking as he goes. He straightens his arms, puts some distance between them because Stiles seems genuinely worried, it’s making him smell all wrong.

“It. Doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles says, flicking a glance at him. “I just- I can’t help it.”

“I know,” Derek says, low and wicked. “That’s why I like it.”

“Is this – are you, you’re gonna fuck me now, right?” And Stiles doesn’t smell scared, but Derek still pauses and leans back because that question is like ice water down his spine.

“Do you want me to?”

“What?” and Stiles blinks at him like he doesn’t understand the fucking question.

“Do - you - _want -_ me - to - fuck - you? Do you want _to be fucked_ ,” Derek asks with exquisite diction. He can feel his temper slipping.                                                                                                                                 

“I-” he shrugs. “If you want to, man. Whatever.”

“ _Not what I asked you_ ,” Derek near-snarls. “Do you want to be fucked in the ass? Do you want my cock, in particular, in your ass?” He’s making no effort to be kind or reassuring, he’s not going to seduce Stiles into this.

“I’ve already consented,” Stiles shoots back tightly. “You do remember the conversation we had on the street, right?” His heart is racing again, still, but at least it’s good honest temper this time, not fear.

“You consented to spend three days and nights with me,” Derek growls, sliding back and away. “You didn’t consent to being forced to do something you don’t even want. And if you think you did you’re a fucking moron.”

“Whores can’t-”

“You’re _not a whore_.”

“I sold you my ass for _ten grand_ , Derek. I’ve sold it for a lot fucking less,” he says, voice breaking. “What the hell else am I-”

“Don’t-”

“You don’t have to ask me these questions,” Stiles half-shouts. “I’m not saying no to you, if you tried something I was afraid of, or that hurt me, I’d say so.”

“Would you?”

“What?”

“Would you say so or would you just grit your teeth until it was over because you need the money?”

Stiles just stares at him, eyes wide and chest heaving. He’s scared now, not of Derek but of all these questions and Derek is suddenly ashamed of himself. He’s not angry at Stiles. He’s fucking furious at the faceless men who handled him carelessly, and because of it he’s acting like an absolute prick.

“Shit,” he says softly, and eases back, right out of Stiles’ space. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling while he listens to the teenager’s heartbeat even out. There’s silence for a long time, and Stiles is the one to break it.

“You said I’m not a whore.”

“Yes.”

“So. Then.” His voice is a low murmur with a fine thread of pain through it. “How do you explain us being here like this. What exactly are you telling yourself about the huge wad of cash you put in my hands that first night, the bag full of money you gave me today?”

“I’m not pretending anything, if that’s what you mean,” Derek says. “I haven’t forgotten how we got here.” He hesitates, takes several deep breaths so that when he says it his voice comes out perfectly even, perfectly calm. “Look. You are engaging in acts of prostitution. _That_ is how I think of it.”

He darts a look at Stiles who is frowning but it’s thoughtful, not upset or angry. Derek swallows, wonders if he can begin to explain this. Words have never been easy for him, especially since he lost his mother’s gentle guidance. “But - _whore._ That’s- to me, a whole other word with a lot more meaning to it. A whore is- _hard_. Cheap. Doesn’t want to get out of that life. I’ve seen that, I’ve seen a _lot_ of it. People who can’t kick the habit and get stuck, people without hope, people who hate themselves.” He looks at Stiles and says, “You’re _not_ a whore. I don’t like hearing you call yourself that. I will never think of you that way. You’re better than that.”

Stiles turns his face away. “I’m better than that,” he says. “Am I.”

“ _Yes.”_

“Because you say so?”

“Because you just _are_. I know you’re in trouble, but I know you’re trying to find a way out.”

He swallows, loud enough for Derek to hear.

“You have no idea of the things I’ve done, that I’ve let guys do to me-”

“I can imagine, very easily, okay. Stiles.” He takes a shuddering breath.

“When I was fifteen,” Derek begins and his voice is rusty already. “Something happened, something- _bad_.” He stops for a little while, making sure he can do this without breaking down. “I lost almost my entire family in one night.”

“ _Shit,”_ Stiles breathes. He doesn’t say anything else but his entire body has tensed. His hand creeps out to grip Derek’s.

“It changed me.” He grimaces at the understatement. “Obviously.”

Stiles just waits.

“I don’t remember much of the next few months. They caught- the person who did it. All the questions were answered as far as that goes. I don’t know, it’s all kind of foggy. Then one day,” he shifts his shoulders restlessly, “it was like I woke up. But- to a nightmare. Where they were all gone.”

Fingers tighten around his hand.

“I went kind of- off the rails, I guess. Ran away.” To his everlasting shame, he’d left Laura behind to deal with Peter and his wild grief, the crazy guilt, on her own. It was why he’d never said a word when she got the chance to go to NYU, hadn’t objected to the 12-month contract in London. He’d abandoned her first.

He brings himself back to the here and now with effort.

“I was an idiot teenager, and I was alone.” Derek turns his head. “You can imagine how well that went.”

 Stiles winces. “Did you.”

“By sheer dumb luck, no, I never turned tricks.” Derek squeezes his hand. He’d at least always been able to find food as the wolf. “It was the only thing I didn’t do, though, and I came damn close a few times. But I did plenty of things I’m not proud of, I stole and I lived in filth and I took a thousand stupid fucking risks-”

Risks Stiles can’t imagine.

Full moons spent in flop houses, or running wild through the woods skating past hunters by the skin of his teeth. Being cold, being hungry, being so damn _angry_ all the fucking time. Derek sighs.

“I made a bunch of bad choices, Stiles. It left its mark on me, I can’t pretend it didn’t. But it didn’t make me into someone else, didn’t make me a bad person. The things I did, I learned from. They made me stronger in a lot of ways, less afraid of what’s inside me, for one thing.”  

He rolls onto his side toward Stiles, looks him right in the eye. “What you’re doing now, it’s hard and ugly and it makes you feel like shit, I know that. But you’re a survivor, and one day you’ll look back and think, I got through that. It didn’t break me.”

Stiles is crying silently as he stares at Derek. “This- it would kill my Dad if he ever found out,” he croaks out.

“I think any parent who’s worth the name would be more worried about your well being than-” Derek says calmly.

“No, you don’t get it. He’s – he’s-” Stiles is close to choking on the words he can’t get out.

“Ssh,” Derek soothes. “You don’t have to say anything.” He draws Stiles into his arms and slots their bodies together. His eyes close involuntarily at the intimacy of it, the trust, the scent of Stiles’ tears and regret.

Stiles is most of the way asleep when he says muzzily, “Derek.” He breathes in once, then his eyes fly open. “Derek _Hale_.”

Derek jerks against him and their eyes meet. “What?”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles says again, pale, and they stare at one another. Stiles bites his lip and Derek waits for it, expressions of sympathy or questions about the fire, about whether he’s okay. But Stiles doesn’t say anything at all. He reaches for Derek’s hand again, twines their fingers together and stays exactly where he is, eyes sad and watchful and knowing.

He falls asleep like that, shortly after, and even as Derek slides into sleep he is wondering who Stiles is, that he would know Derek’s story and remember that name.

 

 


	7. A Month of Saturdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and the kudos. It's lovely getting that sort of feedback while the story is still evolving.

 

Derek stops in the doorway and just looks. He woke alone but for that scent and the call of the moon. His fever is one long blur of _want_ and there is Stiles, looking every inch the teenager he actually is. Nothing like the kid who cried in Derek’s arms or held his hand just a few hours ago.

He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, bathed in late afternoon sunlight, wearing nothing but soft pyjama bottoms and eating cold noodles out of the carton. He looks up and sees Derek, gives him the goofiest grin in all of creation.

“Well well,” he says, all mischief. “The senior citizen awakens.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. _You belong to me, and you don’t even know it yet,_ he thinks. He doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the door frame, aware of Stiles’ hungry gaze moving over his own half-naked body. “You done eating?” he asks, a new picture forming in his head.

Stiles raises a brow. “I could be.”

“Put down the food.”

Curious, he starts to speak and then Derek gives him a flat look.

“O-kay.” Stiles puts the carton in the sink, eyes on Derek and straightens, swallowing.

He lets the silence sit for a good long while, just watching. Teasing himself. “You hard for me, Stiles?”

A short breath shudders out of him but he doesn’t answer.

Derek raises an eyebrow and waits.

“Y-yes.”

“Good boy,” he says calmly. “Now. Spread your legs.”

Stiles flushes. Derek can hear his heart racing from across the room. He swallows once, then slides his legs apart.

“Hands flat on the counter.”

He’s breathing heavier now, but he complies.

“Perfect.” And Derek starts toward him, knows all the implicit threat of a born predator is obvious in the way he stalks across the kitchen floor. Stiles will recognize it on an instinctive level, even without knowing about the wolf. It’s a strange trick of fate that Derek is so strongly attracted to someone whose physical presence screams _prey_. Maybe it’s the twin urges to _bite_ and to _protect_ that have his control so completely shredded.

“Look at you,” he says, low and rough. “All that pale skin of yours, it’s an engraved invitation to mark you up, show everyone where I’ve been and what I’ve done with you.”

Stiles’ breathing hitches.

“And now you’re wondering just what I’m planning.” Derek comes to a stop between Stiles’ thighs, nudges them with his legs until they’re as wide as they’ll go, and places his hands on Stiles’ hips.

“ _Do_ you know what I’m going to do?”

“N-no.”

“Do you want to know?”

Stiles swallows instead of answering that one, eyes blown with arousal.

“I’m going to make you plead for mercy,” Derek says softly, and yanks Stiles forward until he’s balanced at the edge of the bench. “Hands flat on the counter,” Derek says when Stiles starts to lift them. “Keep your hands there or I’ll stop.”

“S-s-stop what?” But Stiles places his hands flat on the countertop and doesn’t move them again. He stares into Derek’s eyes as if hypnotised.

“This.” Derek tugs the waist of Stiles’ pyjama pants down and wraps his hand around the hot length of his cock. Stiles sucks in a harsh breath and his eyes widen as he feels the slickness spread over Derek’s palm. “You- you got ready,” he mumbles. “Been fantasizing?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just bends to put his mouth on Stiles’s chest, his shoulder, trails up his throat to his mouth. When he gets there he flattens a hand across the small of Stiles’ back, pinning him in place, and sinks them both into an open-mouthed kiss, while his hand jacks the kid, slow and relentless.  “Thought you knew,” he murmurs, “I’m pretty much thinking about touching you every second I’m awake.”

“Oh God,” Stiles says faintly, and his head falls back in surrender.

Ten minutes later Stiles is moaning steadily, and Derek is placing shivering kisses on the thin skin behind his ear, nibbling and sucking in turns.

“Derek.” The muscles in the kid’s arms are twitching with how badly he wants to move them.

He doesn’t move them.

“Mmhmm,” Derek hums into the shell of a perfect ear, prompts a whole-body shiver.

“God damn it. Just _do_ it already.”

“Do what,” Derek breathes into the skin of Stiles’ throat.

“ _Do_ it.”

“I can’t help you unless you tell me,” Derek murmurs, and he honest to God doesn’t know anymore if he’s teasing Stiles or if Derek himself actually needs to hear it. He drags his teeth gently down the side of Stiles’ neck.

“F-fuck,” he chokes.

Derek’s hand doesn’t falter.

“Fuck me,” he finally spits out the words. “Come _on_ , Derek, just, just fuck me.”

“You want that?” he nips at a collarbone. “You want me inside you?”

“Yes, yeah,” he says, words starting to stream out in that way Derek recognizes as purest Stiles. “Yeah I want you to fuck me, put that big cock in me and I’ll take it all, so full of you-” and then he catches himself, bites down on his bottom lip and breathes in hard.

“Of course,” Derek murmurs, achingly polite, and yanks Stiles’ pajama bottoms away with a swipe of one hand. He hoists the teenager up without effort, bare legs curving around Derek’s hips and bites down on the kid’s throat as he walks them across the kitchen and into the bedroom.

Stiles gasps, breath hot in Derek’s hair and his arms wind around Derek’s shoulders, fingers digging in as they’re allowed to touch for the first time. When Derek lowers him to the rumpled bed, his eyes are dark and wide, face slack with want and he _writhes_ , more than a little lost. “Derek,” he pants, “God, _please_ , Derek.”

“It’s all right,” he soothes with his voice and his hands. “I have you.” And he thinks of how Stiles had flushed all over when Derek had controlled his hands, out there in the kitchen. He reaches out, grasps Stiles’ wrists and raises them up, up until he is stretched at full length, and Derek winds his hands around the flimsy frame of the bedhead. “I could tie you up,” he says, conversational, and Stiles swallows. “But I know I don’t have to. Because you’re going to be good for me, and _hold_ ,” he says, and Stiles moans in the back of his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, “I- _yeah_.”

He preps Stiles slowly, thoroughly, and it’s not just a tease, it’s Derek’s white-hot determination to make this good, to show Stiles that it _can_ be good, that he has nothing to fear from the wolf. By the time he’s done the kid is rambling in short bursts, pleas and curses and moans. Derek could come just from watching the way the lean body beneath him is writhing ceaselessly, and the hands Derek put in place never move. The only thing holding him back is the iron will to do this _right_.

“Put it in me,” Stiles is saying, “Damn you, I’m ready, Derek, _please_ , I want-”

Derek fumbles the condom on, biting hard at his lip, deliberately drawing blood to distract himself. It heals by the time he’s done and he leans up for an open-mouthed kiss, mutters, “Yeah,” into Stiles’ mouth and slides just the head inside.

Stiles is still, suddenly and Derek freezes. He looks down after a moment, afraid, so afraid that he has reminded Stiles of bad times, or hurt him. But beneath him Stiles face is a study in ecstasy, slack and open and trusting and Derek closes his eyes against the weight of it. Stiles is trusting him with so much, he doesn’t even _know_ -

“Oh,” Stiles is saying, “oh yeah. That’s. More. Yeah.” And he lifts his hips, presses just a little so Derek slides further inside and they both groan. “Derek,” he says, and pins him with that dark, lusty gaze. “Fill me up. _Do it._ ”

“Oh God,” Derek says, and surges forward helplessly.

It’s all a blaze of heat and want after that, the two of them, fitting together perfectly. Stiles lifts to meet him and Derek hooks an arm under his knee to open him up. Their mutual cries fill the room every time Derek bottoms out and slides over Stiles’ prostate. It doesn’t take long at all for Stiles to be biting off words and gasping, coiled tight, and Derek lets go of his leg and slides his hand down to palm Stiles’ cock instead.

He cries out like he’s electrified by the fast, ruthless strokes and his hands finally let go of the bedframe and fly to grab hold of Derek anywhere he can, fingers biting hard. A half-second later he lets go and Derek looks up to see him reach for the frame again.

It’s a thing of fucking beauty as his eyes take the journey up, up and up. First, Stiles’ pale, lean torso, the long, vulnerable line of his extended throat, his jaw working through a moan, long fingers curling around the metal tubes to grip tight and ground himself. Derek locks the image away, a frozen moment he knows he’ll remember for the rest of his life. _Stiles_.

“Shit, _shit_ , oh God, Derek, God God oh _Godddd_ ,” he moans and comes, body clenching hard around Derek who grunts, orgasm punching out of him with no warning and he freezes like that, hips grinding hard against Stiles who cries out again, voice raw and shocked.

Derek just, he fucking _collapses_ , after, which is shitty manners and he forces some kind of strength back into his limbs, rolls them sideways and manages to catch the condom as he slips out of Stiles who makes a numb kind of protesting noise. It’s all about as far from smooth as you can get and he rolls his eyes at himself as he dumps the condom, makes sure to get right back to Stiles and wrap him up, gentling him through the aftershocks and nuzzling at his throat.

“Oh,” Stiles is mumbling. “Oh man that. Oh. Hm.”

Derek _hmms_ into his neck, slightly sweaty now and utterly delicious.

They cuddle now, it’s become a routine neither of them wants to question, they just do it, and since afterglow seems to be one of the few times Stiles is quiet Derek takes the chance to soak it all up. He strokes gently over Stiles’ body, notes the smudged marks on his hips where Derek’s fingers had bitten in and the hickeys on his throat, his collarbone.

He likes.

It’s a long time later that Stiles’ big brain seems to kick in all at once.

“You _shaved_ ,” he says, suddenly accusing. He lifts his head to stare down at Derek’s – admittedly – smooth face.

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t try that bullshit _I have no idea what you mean_ look on me. You were freshly shaven, in the kitchen just now. Oh my god you _totally_ _planned that_.”

He grins lazily and tugs Stiles back down onto the bed. Evening is drawing in, and soon the moon will rise.

 

 


	8. Someday I'll Be Saturday Night

 

 

Stiles’ stomach groans not long after that and Derek rolls to his feet, sighing. “ _Fine_ ,” he says, as if ending a long argument. “I’ll make dinner.”

“You’ll make a call, you mean,” Stiles says on a lazy stretch. Derek eyes him with interest and he catches the look. The kid’s developing some useful survival skills for life with a wolf, all unknowing. Stiles points a long finger at Derek. “No,” he says sternly. “Eat _first_.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but smiles as he goes. Wanders into the kitchen and stares at the takeaway menus he’s amassed in his other visits here. “Pizza okay?”

“Sure.” Stiles calls back from where he is currently stumbling into the shower.

Derek stares in dissatisfaction at the menu. Pizza, yes. But it’s not enough. He calls for Indian too.

 

***

 

“Scott, fuck I am in so much trouble here.” Stiles is whispering.

Derek freezes. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop. He’d only opened the bathroom door to grab another pair of boxers while he waited for the water to get hot. But Stiles is clearly hiding out in the kitchen, half-whispering into his phone so Derek won’t hear.

It hits like a body blow that Derek could ever be something to be _feared_ for this kid, for his _mate_.

 _“Stiles? Are you okay?”_ The other voice comes over the line tinny, but perfectly clear.

“No, are you listening to me? Fuck, no, I am _not okay_ , okay?”

 _“Did that guy hurt you?”_ Derek likes the fierce protectiveness in this Scott’s voice, even as his jealous nature rears its’ head.

“What? No, he didn’t _hurt_ me. He’s not an asshole. Just the opposite and I am so, so _screwed_.”

_“What are you talking about?”_

Derek swallows helplessly. The distress in Stiles’ voice is- for a minute he thinks he’s going to be sick and he half-falls against the door frame, thinking frantically over what they’d just done, the way he’d treated Stiles in the kitchen, in bed. It had seemed- _natural_. A rhythm they’d fallen into together, and so _easily_ but clearly it hadn’t been like that for Stiles _oh fuck_ -

“He’s like, perfect. He’s fucking _perfect_ and this has _got_ to be some kind of nightmare. It’s the zombie apocalypse. Definitely. Stock up on canned food now because something like this can only be happening to me if the end of the world is quite literally approaching-”

_“Stiles. Calm down. What do you mean you’re screwed. If this guy’s so nice then just-”_

“He’s not just _nice_ , Scott, okay?” Derek can picture the gestures that go with the words so easily. “He’s like, smart. Affectionate. Kind. Listened to me ramble and then _bought me a brownie_. Possibly a dog person. _Wicked_ good in bed.” Derek blinks.

_“Yeah, I don’t... want to know that last bit."_

“And you saw the picture.”

_“Yeah. He looked- okay.”_

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right, in that completely unnecessary Greek God kind of way. Look, whatever-”

_“So what you’re calling to tell me in a panic is that the hot weekend you wanted is also turning out to be awesome in every other way?”_

“No, moron. _Listen to me_ ,” Stiles sighs. “Try to picture this- you think you’re going on a date with someone even vaguely in your league. Allison.”

 _“Yeah.”_ Scott suddenly sounds like a brainless pup, which Stiles was apparently expecting.

“Scott. _Focus_. And instead, when you open the door, it’s _Scarlett-fucking-Johanssen_ , okay, and not only is she everything you ever dreamed, she also seems to be, perhaps due to an acquired brain injury, very very into _you_. Imagine _that_.”

_“Yeah. Um, sounds awful.”_

_“Argh!”_

That’s the first time Derek’s ever heard someone make that noise in real life. There’s a soft thump which is possibly Stiles’ head hitting the kitchen wall.

“Scott. Try to _think_. Try to think about what happens to this imaginary Scott when ScarJo turns around on Monday morning and says, bye, thanks for the blow jobs, never call me again. _Now_ what for Scott? _Now_ when he sees Allison at school, when he sees the head cheerleader, when he sees _Lydia freaking Martin_ , he thinks, _eh, I’ve had better_. In fact, for the _rest of his fucking life_ no-one can measure up.” Stiles is gasping by the time he finishes.

And Derek starts to breathe again.

 _“Okay,”_ Scott says slowly. _“I get what you’re saying. But Stiles, man, if he’s so into you, how do you know he’s gonna blow you off on Monday? Maybe he’ll give you his number instead.”_

“That’s. No.” Stiles says, voice suddenly thick and heavy. “That’s- not gonna happen, Scott.”

_“Why not? You said he seems into you-”_

“Scott,” he says again, harsh and hurt. “ _Don’t_. This isn’t a Julia Roberts movie.”

_“What?”_

Derek steps back into the bathroom, heart aching, head spinning. And yet. there’s hope there, where there wasn’t before. That Stiles could possibly be interested in someone as socially awkward as Derek.

“Nothing, man,” Stiles is saying dully as he closes the bathroom door. “Just. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to guys like me.”

 

***

 

When the food arrives, he’s still in the shower and Stiles dumps the pizzas boxes on the bed. Derek raises a brow from the doorway where he’s towelling water out of his hair. He eyes Stiles warily, but there’s no sign of the panicked phone call Derek isn’t supposed to know about. He has no choice but to ignore it, for now.

“It’s probably time to change the sheets anyway,” Stiles offers. Derek just nods and tosses his towel over the rail. He pulls on boxers and climbs across the bed, snagging a slice and wondering idly how much longer the curry will take. His normal appetite gets a lot larger during this kind of event. Right on cue there’s a knock, and he scrambles out of bed to pay the bemused delivery girl, who seems very appreciative of his bare chest if the _boom-chick-a_ she mutters to herself in the hallway is anything to go by. He snags two forks and heads back to the bedroom, still not sure what to do or say next.

Stiles eyes his second delivery with amusement and helps himself to naan. Derek’s just eating, trying not to be too gross about it, watching Stiles absently, the way he can’t really help anymore, when he realizes the kid has stopped and is staring right back.

“You are-” Stiles says and stops.

“What.”

“It’s like – did you take a fucking class or something.” Then he snorts. “A _fucking_ class.”

“What are you talking about.”

“You’re just- good in bed,” he says, flushing.

Derek blinks at him.

Stiles moves forwards, then sideways on the bed. He finally settles with his back against the wall, long legs extended down the bed. Derek shifts until he can rest a foot on Stiles’ calf and relaxes again.  

Stiles looks away, and starts to talk lightly in a way Derek is already beginning to recognize as a defensive tactic. “I just feel that you’re maybe being a little unfair. Ruining me for life like this. I mean, what are the odds I’ll ever again get the chance to sleep with someone who fucks like you do, let alone looks like an underwear model.”

“You think it’s _me?_ ” Derek snorts and instantly regrets it, sees the dull flush rise up Stiles’s face as if Derek was mocking him. He scrabbles to repair the damage, thinking of that phone call again. “Stiles. It’s not me. It’s _you._ ”

“What?”

It’s not easy to say this stuff, but Stiles deserves to hear it. “I’ve never been like this before.”

“Like what?” Warily.

 _Insatiable_ , Derek wants to say. _Talkative. Relaxed_. Instead he just gestures at the relaxed sprawl of the two of them, the much-abused bed.

Stiles blinks at him, fork stuck in mid-air with korma sauce dripping back into the dish.

“Usually I’m,” Derek shrugs and gestures. “Closed off.”

“ _No_ , really?” Stiles mutters.

“I just-”

“You get in there and do what you have to do, then get out?” Stiles says drily.

He frowns. “No. Not that bad. Just.”

“Not like this,” he says softly, tilting his chin at the rice, the cuddling, the closeness. Rubs his calf against Derek’s toes. And Derek nods, willing him to believe it, to understand some shadow of what it means.

“So. Why now then?”

“Why _now?”_

“Something happen?”

“Nothing _happened_ ,” Derek replies. “Just – I think it’s you. That’s what I meant. I’m different around you.”

Stiles stares back at him, eyes wide. “That’s. Yeah. Ruined for life,” he says, very very softly and they eat the rest of the food in silence.

 

***

 

They’re collapsed beside one another in afterglow – _again_ , when the question just slips out.

“Stiles was it.” Derek hesitates but he can't stop now. “Your first time, it wasn’t-”

“For money?” His mouth twists but he doesn’t pull away like Derek had feared he might. “No.”

There’s silence for a moment, Derek doesn’t want to push. Then Stiles sighs and repeats, “No. There’s this guy at school, he’s out, and I always used to joke with him, y’know, _am I attractive to gay guys?_ And then. When I decided I was going to do this, I just. I didn’t want-”

Derek strokes his arm. There’s a silence he has no desire to break. Stiles rolls onto his side, facing away from Derek, but he wriggles backwards enough that they’re still touching. Derek will take what he can get.

“If I had any brains I would have done it for money,” Stiles says, suddenly bitter. “You can sell pretty much anything online. Do you have any idea what some people would pay to fuck a virgin?”

“No.” He says softly. “Stiles, no.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to-”

“You’ve punished yourself enough, Stiles. And I’m glad your first time wasn’t like that. Was with someone your own age.”

“Oh, I didn’t sleep with _Danny_. I mean, he was pretty clear about not doing that. I needed a story, for why it was suddenly urgent that I lose my ass-fucking virginity. So I told him there was this older guy I was interested in but I thought I needed some experience before I took a run at this mythical intimidating man. So he, y’know, he knows people, his boyfriend works at a local club and so he took me along one night and, well.” He shrugs one shoulder. “This guy picked me up, Danny kind of gave me the ok that yeah, he wasn’t a douchebag and so I went home with him.”

“And it was... okay?” Derek asks carefully.

“It was fine. Good, even. I mean he was attractive and careful and he was uh, enthusiastic. But. Y’know. It wasn’t... what I would have chosen in other circumstances.”

 Derek just nods. He’s almost going to leave it, and then thinks, _fuck it_. He _can’t_ just ignore it. He’ll lie awake every night for the rest of his life wondering if he does. “The ten thousand,” he begins, far too abruptly. “Is it. Will it. Be enough?”

Stiles has gone very still. “Enough for what?” he asks, and Derek can’t decide if he wishes he could see Stiles’ face or if he’s glad they can both hide.

“To help,” he says, instead of _to stop_.

There’s a long silence. “Yeah,” Stiles finally says. “Yeah, it’ll. I can probably-” his hands tighten on Derek’s. “No,” he finally says, voice low and hard, convincing himself as he goes, Derek thinks, “ _definitely_. I can. I can stop. I’ll _make_ it work. It’ll work.”

Derek just breathes. He’s so scared right now of fucking this up he can’t find a single word to say.

“You’re right. I _don’t_ want to do this, I hate it, I’m trying to get out,” Stiles says and his voice is shaking now. “I hate the, I hate how it feels I hate what they say and how they smell and most of all I hate what I _do_ and I go home and scrub and scrub-”

Derek just tightens his arms and presses his face into Stiles’s nape and holds on.

“-can’t tell anyone, God, please if they ever found out they’d, my Dad, he’d-”

“Sshhh,” Derek finds himself saying because Stiles is just sobbing now, raw and naked and he lets go just long enough to turn Stiles around and pull him close, face hidden in Derek’s throat as he chokes out more words, “ssh, now, Stiles, let it go, no-one knows, it’s all right, you’re all right, sshh.”

 


	9. You're My Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE to Diva 0789 for emergency beta and dealing with my complete social!fail. 
> 
> Also, I'm going to start throwing chapter titles in to keep track of the days (song titles/lyrics) so if you have a suggestion that suits the mood of the chapter, let me know.

 

It’s the early hours of the morning when the lust sweeps over Derek again, blinding him. He’s already nuzzling his way down Stiles’ body when the kid shifts, waking, and glances over his shoulder. “Derek?” he slurs.

“Hmm,” he hums, reaches the small of his mate’s back and bites there, strong enough to make his presence felt but nowhere near drawing blood.

“Man,” Stiles sighs in admiration. “You are like a machine.” He’s lifting an arm, prepared to roll over when Derek stills him, a hand on his hip. “Oh? Yeah? Okay. Like this, yeah, just, you let me know,” he rambles into the pillow aimlessly which makes it all the more gratifying when Derek’s tongue in his ass has him jack-knifing upright with a _“Jesus!”_

Stiles jerks against his mouth helplessly, Derek’s grip far too strong for a mere human to overcome and he can smell the thick arousal of his mate, the shock as much a part of it as anything else. He likes his pleasures unannounced, does Stiles, spins higher and wilder for not knowing what will happen next and Derek is happy to oblige.

He shifts his grip slightly and just _goes for it_ , eats out Stiles’ ass until he’s half-sobbing, hand twitching toward his neglected cock more than once only to have Derek slap it away.

His mouth is more gainfully employed than mere speech, but the blood pounding through his body is a shout of mate, _mine_ , more, fuck, _need_ , mate, mine-

“Please, Derek, whatever you want, I’m, _just_ , oh, _use_ me,” Stiles is mumbling, breath coming in fast hitches and that’s it, that’s what he’d been waiting for, Derek reaches around and palms his mate’s cock, and Stiles comes with a hoarse shout after three swift tugs.

“Fuck,” he slurs out, and falls forward onto his stomach. “Oh fuck.” He breathes into the pillow for a few moments, then turns his head toward Derek, who is surveying his ass with some satisfaction. “Oh God,” he manages, eyes dropping to Derek’s cock, hard and throbbing. “You’re still-”

Derek’s finger slides inside Stiles where he’s absolutely dripping wet from Derek’s mouth, and he twitches hard but doesn’t pull away. His eyes are locked on Derek’s face, Derek is staring back at him.

“Tell me,” Stiles says, very soft and sure. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it. You’ve got me.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “Mine,” he says, voice even softer than Stiles, hoarse from disuse. He slides his finger gently in and out, ignoring his own red, angry erection and the way Stiles’ ass contracts around him, still oversensitive from orgasm.

“Yeah, babe,” Stiles husks out, breathing unsteady. “Yeah.” He bites his bottom lip.

“Blow me,” Derek says, and lets his finger slide out as he settles himself against the wall.

“My pleasure,” Stiles says, and his eyes light up as he starts toward Derek on his hands and knees, breath still unsteady.

“Open me up,” Derek adds, and after a moment, Stiles just nods. He leans over to snag the lube from the floor by the bed, and gets to work.

The kid’s mouth is a minor fucking miracle, Derek thinks, staring down at Stiles. Those soft, pretty lips, red and slick and sliding around Derek’s dick and he groans deeply as Stiles’ finger breaches him. Derek slides his legs further apart and grunts, “Two.” He’s always enjoyed the burn.

“Your fingers, Stiles,” he manages as the kid works him open. “Fucking beautiful. I noticed that first night,” he chokes out. “Wanted. Want to suck them. Want them in me. Dance those hands all over me,” he adds and Stiles hums, a low satisfied sound that Derek feels through his balls and beyond. He moans again. “Another.”

He glances down as Stiles adds more lube, sees that the kid is hard again. He licks his lips in anticipation, shit, there’s not enough hours in the night for all the things he wants to do to Stiles, wants to suck him again, for hours this time, wants to stroke him to orgasm with just Derek’s fingers, wants to fuck his face and bite his nipples and have him straddle Derek’s lap and-

“Shit, Derek,” Stiles gasps against his thigh, and he realizes a moment later he’s been saying all of that in a dazed voice, thick with desire. Derek’s never been one for talking during sex but he suddenly can’t hold back. “Fucking, yeah- I want-”

“You want me?”

“Yes,” Stiles responds helplessly. “I want you, I always want you-”

“How much?” He moans then, when Stiles presses in and gently out with three fingers. “How much do you want me?”

The fingers never stop. “More than anything. More than I knew I could.”

Derek slits his eyes open and stares down at his mate. “Would you keep me? Lock me away from everyone else? Make me your slave, Stiles? Just for you, just for your pleasure?”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, low and guttural. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d own you-”

 “Up,” Derek commands, utterly focused on his end-game. “Move.”

Stiles blinks at him, gently slides his fingers out of Derek’s ass and allows Derek to manhandle him onto his back in the middle of the bed. His eyes are wild, and he tracks Derek’s movements, uncomprehending as he snags a condom, tears open the packet and then rolls it onto Stiles.

“Oh fuck,” he finally gasps, eyes widening in shock. “Derek, fuck.”

Derek straddles Stiles, staring down at the teenager. “Show me,” he says, low and fierce. “Show me how bad you want me, show me I’m yours.”

“Mine,” Stiles slurs out as Derek rises up above him. “Fucking mine, never, never leave me,” he presses against Derek and those slim hips bow up, just enough to slide the head inside.

Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles’ face as he slides slowly, slowly down. Stiles is longer than he is, but not as thick, and it’s perfect, the stretch all the way inside, the head ghosting over Derek’s prostate when he moves just _so_.

“You’re so tight,” Stiles grits out.

He sighs and lets his head fall back, feels his body split open around Stiles. “Been a long time.”

Stiles surprises him then, curls upright just enough to open his warm, wet mouth over Derek’s nipple. His head falls back and he gasps as the gentle suction and the slide of Stiles’ cock send a jolt through his body. “Stiles,” he moans.

Stiles turns his attention to the other nipple, _bites_ this time and Derek’s whole body shudders, teasing them both with the friction. “Fuck,” Stiles slurs out against his chest and his hands close over Derek’s hips as he grinds them together. “Fucking hell, _Derek_.”

Derek rests his lips on the bristles of Stiles’ close-cropped hair, and it’s a moment of tenderness that changes into a sudden flash of realization. He’s going about this all wrong. In his heart he wants this to be Stiles’ moment. To do that Derek has to let go, close his eyes and _trust_.

“You want to fuck me,” Derek rasps out against Stiles’ ear.

His hips jerk under Derek making them both gasp and he manages a thick, “Yeah.”

“Then tell me. How do you want me?”

Stiles goes very still. He raises his head and looks at Derek, cautious and disbelieving. “You- this is fine.”

“How do you want me?” Derek repeats. He runs a thumb along that sweet bottom lip. “How do you want to fuck me, Stiles?”

Stiles’ eyelids droop heavily, and he takes a few deep breaths. “Hands and knees,” he finally says, and his voice is guttural.

“Yeah,” Derek hisses. “So you can just, _give it to me_. Just,” he starts to raise his hips, never looking away from Stiles, “Just fucking hammer it into me, Stiles, I want you to, I can take it, you can’t hurt me.”

“Oh shit,” Stiles just manages to get the words out and watches dumbly as Derek slides off him, both of them groaning at the loss. “All right,” he says, half to himself, and turns onto his knees, hunting again for the lube. Derek eyes him, leans over the bed to take a swig of the mouthwash Stiles had gone looking for that morning, teasing about morning breath. He rinses his mouth and spits into an empty waterglass then stares for a moment at his own face, flushed and unrecognizable in the window’s reflection.

They meet in the middle of the bed and kiss until they’re both gasping, then Derek turns onto hands and knees, loving the flush over Stiles’ cheekbones, the heavy lidded look of his eyes. Stiles puts his hand on the small of Derek’s back and he shivers, drops his head and thinks all at once _God, this is it for me_. This isn’t a transitory mate, the way Derek’s been telling himself, not a close-enough kind of thing. Stiles. He’s the _one_.

He’s perilously close to hyperventilating. And in that moment Stiles leans forward, a warm weight over Derek’s back and he traces a delicate path over the triskelion between Derek’s shoulder blades. It’s personal, something he’s never shared with any lover. A strangled sound breaks from Derek’s throat and Stiles murmurs, “This, so beautiful, I’ve wanted to touch-”

“Oh God,” Derek manages, “no-one’s ever, yes, yeah-”

“Can I-” Stiles begins but doesn’t wait for an answer, just curves forward and traces the shape with his tongue, warm breath flowing over wet skin as he moves, whispers praise and affection into the lines.

 _Overwhelmed_ is too small a word for what Derek is feeling. He is shaking and panting when Stiles finally lines up and slides inside Derek so sweet and easy, gliding straight over the sweet spot. He sucks in a breath and looks down, watches that elegant hand curl around his weeping erection and Derek cries out in helpless shock, and grinds back against Stiles as he comes.

He’s panting hoarsely when he becomes aware of Stiles, voice low and anxious, the slight shift of weight that means he’s thinking of pulling out and Derek throws a hand back to grip Stiles’ thigh, keep him in place. “Don’t,” he says, “don’t stop.”

“Derek,” his voice is strained. “I don’t- you’ll be too-”

“I’m already getting hard again, Stiles,” he pants. “Please. I want this. Want you so bad,” and he can’t even believe he’s saying this shit, just openly begging but Stiles’ cock is hard inside him, nudging against that hot spot and sparking lights behind his eyes and he wants to know Stiles this way too, wants to take all he has to give.

“I want to feel you for a week,” he growls out. There’s a pang that comes with knowing it’s never going to be that way with his stupid healing ability – no hickeys, no bruises and no sore ass even when he wants it – but he gets over it pretty quickly when Stiles groans deep in the back of his throat, pulls back and shoves hard enough into Derek for him to grunt in surprise and delight.

“Yeah.”

Stiles thrusts again.

“Yeah,” Derek grunts, “Yeah, come on, _yeah-_ ”

Stiles needs no more encouragement, his hips are snapping forward mercilessly, fingers biting in hard, and Derek is suddenly the vocal one, no shame and no holding back anymore. He’s oversensitive and overstimulated enough that it hurts but he wants this, wants so badly and Stiles keeps going, relentless and then suddenly Derek is through to the other side where everything feels incredible.

“Stiles,” he moans, “fuck, Stiles, so good-”

“Yeah,” he gasps back, “yeah.”

And the world drops away, there is only the slide and the heat and the scent of Stiles-and-Derek everywhere. Derek throws his head back and stares out the window at the moon, the fierce pull of it dragging his body into the furnace, burning for all the things he wants most, the things he keeps secret.

“Stiles,” he moans, naming it, ahh, _mate_ and _pack_ and _family_ all encapsulated in one word, one movement, one scent, one taste and one sound as his mate’s fingers dig deep, clutching hard enough to hurt.

“Babe,” Stiles grinds out, “I’m close, _God, God,_ I’m-”

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek says again, eyes closing, and when that last thrust becomes a grind, a drawn-out moan of ecstasy he gives in to the wave and shudders through an orgasm so intense it’s almost brutal.

Stiles is draped over him, panting, but he has enough grace left to pull out gently and dump the condom. By the time he turns back Derek has shifted enough to avoid the mess he’s made of the sheet, and they collapse together at the foot of the bed, the only place left that’s not sticky.

“Wow,” Stiles says softly. His fingers trace gently over Derek’s face and he closes his eyes, just soaking up the gentle touch. “You okay?”

“Mmmm,” Derek offers, back to nonverbal. But he’s heard the slight thread of worry and knows Stiles probably has... issues with getting too rough during sex. So he reaches out a hand and finds Stiles’ wrist, wraps his hand around it and squeezes. “Perfect,” he manages to say, and the kid relaxes again, kisses Derek with an air of calm familiarity he folds close to his heart.

He wants this. Wants it forever.

 

 


	10. Sunday Morning

 

Morning is trying to get Stiles. Trying to trick him. _Wake up,_ it’s whispering, but he’s not gonna listen. He makes an indeterminate noise and shifts, looking for his old buddy sleeeeep.

There’s movement close by and before he can get properly alarmed some small part of his brain slurs _Derek_ , and he relaxes. He’s aware that’s more than a little cuckoo, he’s barely known the guy more than a day, but there it is. He’s had precious little good stuff in his life lately, he’s damn well taking it where he can.

He takes in a deep breath, totally relaxed, and then there’s a new sensation. The barely-there tickle of the sheet, sliding slowly down his body, baring his naked skin to the air. Chest, belly, groin, and then finally, legs are revealed.

He hums, not exactly disappointed by this change in his circumstances.

He hears the snick of the lube and almost grins. He fights it off, though Derek has undoubtedly noticed the small twitch at the corner of his mouth he couldn’t quite hold back. Derek is a noticing kind of guy. Which is why he feels sure Derek will get the message when Stiles lazily shifts his legs, spreading them. Completely without shame.

A soft kiss falls on his hipbone, next to his morning wood. “Morning,” Derek rumbles.

God, Stiles fucking loves Derek’s morning voice. “Mrgh,” he says in reply, and then just lets out a long, satisfied sigh when one cool finger slides confidently inside. He presses his head back into the mattress, not sure why arching his throat like that feels good, feels sexy. It just does.

And Derek likes it.

Another finger later he is sighing in satisfaction. His eyes are still closed, body still a dead weight on the mattress, and Derek is working him open so gently, so easily, not trying to drive Stiles crazy the way he totally can. They’re in silent agreement here, a lazy, gentle slide into sex and Stiles sighs a little, suddenly just so damn _happy_.

It’s been a long time since his life felt this simple, or this good. And never has it been like this when _sex_ was on the horizon. This is oddly like hanging out with Scott, except with a string of orgasms, _way_ less talking and so far, even less Halo marathons.

Derek nudges him onto his side using that big, warm body, and Stiles just lets his own weight and those clever hands put him where he needs to go. He likes this position too, it’s even more like sleep, and he makes a happy snuffling noise into the sheets when he ends up face down, sprawled out.

Derek slides three fingers in this time, with more lube, Stiles notes absently. Turns out Derek is very strict on prep, always focused on Stiles instead of the endgame. His chest warms at the thought and he sighs again.

“The sheets smell like us,” he says absently, and Derek makes a satisfied noise deep in his chest as he fumbles for the condom.

“I know.”

He slides inside Stiles, slow and easy and fucking gorgeous. He can’t help it, he lets out a moan at how good, _god how good_ it feels to have Derek so close, under his skin, wanting Stiles. His eyes flutter open for a second, ready for movement and friction and heat.

He doesn’t get it. Derek doesn’t move. Stiles just breathes. Closes his eyes again, accepting. This is good, too.

Every breath they take shifts Derek just slightly inside him. It’s not like sex, exactly, it feels more... _intimate_ than that and at the back of Stiles head he thinks he should maybe be worried but it’s so damn good to feel nice for once, instead of scared and worried, to feel desirable and sexy and special. So yeah. He’s gonna deny deny _deny_.

Derek shifts, just slightly, it bumps Stiles’ prostate and his breath catches but then he’s frowning drowsily, confused because Derek’s big hands are reaching for Stiles’ wrists, drawing his arms down straight by his sides. He’s curious for a second, and then every thought in his head vanishes into a cloud of bliss because Derek’s thumbs are pressing into his palms, hard, fingers working along the back of his hands, wrists and forearms, squeezing the muscles there that get tight from writing and typing and uh, other activities and Stiles groans, long and loud. Oh god, that feels _so damn good_.

He can hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “Should I feel offended that it’s not my dick giving you that reaction?”

“Hey, your dick has had _plenty_ of appreciation from me,” Stiles slurs. “Plenty. I was totally composing a haiku to it last night, not that you noticed.”

“Hm,” Derek says, noncommittal, and then this insanity continues because he works each hand up higher, squeezing and releasing, thumb occasionally digging in at a sore spot, up Stiles’s biceps and triceps and on to his shoulders and back and Derek’s dick is shifting inside him in small increments, but it’s like he doesn’t even care about fucking Stiles’ extremely willing ass, he’s so focused on Stiles’ body in its entirety.

He feels a rush of heat sweep up his body from his toes all the way to his head, and this time when he moans it’s all about his rapidly rising arousal. “Derek,” he says. _“Derek.”_

“Yeah,” the other man returns huskily. “Stiles.”

“Fuck me.”

“I am.”

“No, _fuck_ me.”

This time he _feels_ the grin, because Derek has bent down to mouth at Stiles’s back. “Definitely on my list,” he says, and bites gently across Stiles’ shoulder. “Christ,” he murmurs as if to himself, “I fucking love your skin.”

“S’just skin,” Stiles mutters back

“It’s perfect,” Derek says, kissing his way down Stiles’ spine. “You’re all creamy and smooth, it’s just begging me to lick and bite and lick,” and Stiles whimpers.

“I like licking,” he says. Biting is awesome too when Derek does it but he can’t be bothered to say so right now. He’s so very aware of his body, his position. Derek’s strong thighs pressed against his, opening Stiles for his thick cock which is _still not moving_ , the warm Derek-blanket at his back and the pillow beneath his groin he is helplessly grinding into.

Derek’s hands slide around his waist, and for a moment Stiles’ cock has a perky thought, _hell_ _yeah, here I am_ , but instead of the expected those hands sweep up and up, smoothing over belly and chest, coming to rest over Stiles’ collarbones, just pressing close, Derek’s belly against his back and he breathes, shaky all of a sudden.

“Derek,” he moans, and he’s pleading, overwhelmed by the tease of Derek’s cock inside him and his weight all over him and his mouth biting at Stiles’ nape, “just, I need, _please_ -”

“Yeah,” he murmurs back, impossibly gentle, and his hips begin moving in a slow, perfect slide. Out, and slowly in.

Stiles’ breath hitches in gratitude, in prayer maybe, he’s so far gone already and they haven’t even _done_ anything.

“I’m here,” Derek murmurs, tone so gentle. “I’ve got you.”

_Yeah, oh_ shit _, yeah you do_ , Stiles thinks, dizzy with lust and the unwelcome realization that he is in so far over his head, _damn it_ , damn Derek for bewitching him with honest desire and compassion and his magic goddam cock-

The tempo doesn’t vary, it’s the sweetest torture, the perfect slide of skin on skin and heat and tightness and Stiles is whining into the pillow, has to hide his face before he says something dumb.

Derek is mumbling against his shoulder, hands finally moving, one planting on the mattress to take Derek’s weight while the other slides down to cup Stiles’ hip, hold him in place for the fuck of a lifetime.

Each deliberate stroke takes Stiles a little higher, but in such tiny increments he wants to scream and yet he was already so turned on he should be done already but something’s different, he’s splayed open and can’t hide anymore, and there’s nothing but Derek Derek _Derek_.

“Perfect, God, so damn hot- you’re, you just, _yeah_ , oh shit _there_ , I need, hmm, fuck, _Derek_ -”

With a kind of distant horror Stiles realizes that hoarse stream of words is tumbling from _his_ lips. He drags in a shuddering breath and tries to stop it, managing only to groan like he’s dying and Derek is the only cure. But Derek is talking too, mumbling praise and curses in equal measure and the threadiness of the older man’s voice is the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard. _He’s_ doing that to Derek, it’s Stiles’ body and Stiles’ responsiveness and Stiles’ words that are breaking that iron control and he thinks, _fuck it_ , just lets go, says whatever comes into his head as the strokes grow steadily faster.

“Yeah, you know you’re gonna, oh god, there’ll be nothing left, just, just do it just give it to me cos you know I can take it, _I want it_ , fuck, you tease, you, just, with your hands and that voice and hm, yeah, teeth, I like that too and you’re all over me, man, Derek I can’t think anymore I just need, need what you can give me, I can’t, I can’t, Derek, Derek, I can’t-” and with a hoarse, broken sound Stiles’ entire body seems to catch fire, orgasm whipping through him at some kind of cellular level.

He comes and comes and _comes_ , gasping and shaking and it’s only when Derek moans through his own orgasm and his fingers bite deep into Stiles’ hip that he realises it’s the first time in his life he’s come untouched.

 


	11. Sunday Bloody Sunday

 

“There’s something-” Derek huffs out a breath and tries again. “I need to tell you something.”

Stiles hands go still in mid-air and the used coffee grounds plop wetly out of the French press, half of them missing the trashcan. “Oh God. That’s as bad as telling your significant other _we need to talk_. Is this the part where it all goes wrong and you admit you’ve been secretly broadcasting this live on the internet or that you actually _are_ a serial killer?”

Derek manages not to smile. “No to both of those.”

“Hmf. That’s what you _would_ say,” Stiles mutters. He shakes the rest of the grounds out and frowns at the mess on the floor.

“Go ahead, then,” Derek says, “Take a look at HotSluttyTeens.com, see if there’s a listing for The Stiles.”

“Mock mock mock,” Stiles shoots back, though he’s gone a little pink, probably at the thought that Derek thinks he’s hot. Like that wasn’t obvious, the dumbass.

“No, it’s- it’s something about me,” Derek says and takes a huge breath. “Something I want to- show you, before- before.” He can’t say _before it’s over_ , it makes his stomach churn.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, glancing away. He scratches at his head, “That reminds me. We, uh, never did iron out the details, tomorrow’s Monday, but with the whole ‘days too’ thing I wasn’t sure when our uh, finish actually was.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You honestly think I’m going to ask you to _skip school_ so we can screw around?”

Stiles shrugs, offers a small grin. “I’ve probably done it for worse reasons than that, man.”

“No. No skipping school.” He takes a breath and makes himself offer, “In fact, if you need- tonight- I mean-”

“No,” Stiles says firmly. “We made an agreement. I’ll be here until morning. Long as I’m up pretty early I can make it on time.”

“Okay. So. Uh. D’you want to... go for a drive?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Go for a drive?”

“Yeah. This... I have something to show you but um, not in the city.”

“It’s not a shallow grave, is it?” Stiles says faintly, then cracks up when Derek scowls. “Come on, man, I couldn’t resist. Okay. A drive to the woods, it is.”

“I left my car a fair distance away,” Derek says, “I can go-”

“Mine’s just a few blocks away,” Stiles says after a bare moment of hesitation, and Derek nods. Better if Stiles has the control. If he freaks out, he can take off in his own car. Derek takes a few deep breaths. He’s scared. No point pretending he’s not.

“Okay,” he says, and then clams up while they shower and get dressed again in the only clean clothes they have left. Derek jogs down to the basement and switches out their load of sheets and clothes from the washer to the dryer while Stiles is in the shower. When he gets back Stiles has cleaned up the kitchen floor.

They barely talk on their way out of the apartment, and Stiles leads Derek in the opposite direction to the bowling alley. He casts a sideways glance at Stiles and then nods to himself. Kid wouldn’t want to risk the car being mistaken for abandoned. He must have moved it yesterday.

“Just so you know,” Stiles says seriously, “this car is everything to me. Insult her, and walk home.”

“I’ll remember.”

He climbs into the Jeep, and listens closely for Stiles’ heartbeat. It occurs to him that he is now sitting within reach of both Stiles _and_ all of the cash Derek has given him. A suspicious person might-

Stiles heartbeat doesn’t even stutter. Derek hugs the knowledge to himself all the way to the highway. He breathes in deep and smiles a little at the realization he hadn’t been imagining things because of the close quarters of the apartment. Even in the Jeep there’s a definite Stiles-and-Derek scent.

“Hey, have you ever had Rosa’s ice-cream?” Stiles’ question breaks into his thoughts as they blow past the _You Are Leaving Palmerston_ sign.

“What? Uh. Yeah.” Not for years, though.

“Want to have some now?” Stiles hints heavily. “We can pull in there first, and you can do your big reveal with a side order of butterscotch pecan.”

“Sure,” Derek says, shrugging. He stares out the window for a while, thinking about the last time he had Rosa’s icecream, and fishes out his phone. He hesitates for a long moment, then taps out a text he sends to Laura.

_I’m telling him._

They’re pulling into the parking lot at Rosa’s when his phone vibrates in his hand.

_I’m proud of you._

_Wow, a full sentence of real words,_ Derek sends back. _You MUST be_.

_Asshole._

 

 

Rosa’s is the kind of place only a local knows about, a converted truck stop that looks incredibly uninviting from the road, and Derek wonders for a moment just where Stiles is from. He doubts it’s Palmerston, he’s too cautious to do what he’s doing in his own home town. There are about four small towns all within an easy drive of each other, it could be any one of those.

They file inside and line up behind a Korean family whose tiny daughter stares up at the two of them with wide, unblinking eyes. Stiles winks at her and she shuffles sideways just a tiny bit, pressed against her mother’s leg, then offers a shy smile. Stiles beams at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. Derek swallows hard and looks away, instincts flaring uncontrollably. _Family._

 They place their orders – chocolate peanut butter and rum’n’raisin – and step aside to let make room at the register. There’s a weird moment where Derek reaches for his wallet and catches the sudden tension in Stiles’ jaw. He lets his hand drop away and the kid pays for their order.

He’s reaching for his cup and plastic spoon when it happens. “Derek.” He freezes at hearing pretty much the least welcome sound in the world right now, his uncle’s voice.

He takes one quick breath and turns, not-at-all-accidentally putting himself squarely between Stiles and his uncle, who lets the restroom door close behind him. No sign of companionship for his uncle during this mating moon. _You fucking hypocrite,_ Derek thinks. Though to be fair, Peter has valid reasons for being a head case, considering the last person he slept with murdered almost their entire family.

“Peter.”

“It’s good to see you looking so well. I was worried, when you just up and disappeared.”

“I’m twenty-three years old,” Derek says. “Your concern is unnecessary.”

 _“Clearly,”_ Peter says, one eyebrow rising as he tilts his head to glance at Stiles. “I don’t believe we’ve met-”

“Peter,” Derek says flatly, “you’re crashing our first date.”

Their eyes meet and hold. Out of sight, Derek reaches behind him and clasps Stiles’ wrist. His pulse is slightly faster than normal, but nothing to worry about.

“Well, I’d hate to get in the way of something that’s so clearly going well,” Peter says with a twisted smile. Which means, _fuck_ , that he’s noticed their scents, they way they’re entwined. Derek has no idea what Peter’ll do next, though at least he still doesn’t know about the apartment back in Palmerston. He has that much breathing room.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” Derek says.

“Of course.” Peter offers another insincere smile and glances again at Stiles. “I hope your father improves quickly,” he offers, and then leaves as Stiles’ heartbeat suddenly jackrabbits.

“ _Fuck,”_ Stiles says softly, and it’s like he’s reading Derek’s mind.

Derek turns, thoughts reeling. _Peter_ recognized Stiles? What the _hell?_

“I guess it’s true what they say,” Stiles offers weakly, and he is breathing fast and shallow. “Ice cream really is bad for you.”

Derek turns away again, watching Peter all the way to his car, makes sure he drives out of the lot, pulls into traffic and drive away. “I hope your father is feeling better soon,” Derek repeats, once he knows Peter can’t hear anymore.

Stiles slumps behind him, forehead pressed to Derek’s back. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Derek says slowly. “My uncle knows your father?”

“Fucking _Beacon Hills_ ,” Stiles mutters. They collect their order on automatic, step away from the counter and end up leaning awkwardly against a fridge full of sodas in the far corner, both displaying the closed-off body language of people who are trying hard not to have an argument in public.

“Stiles.” Derek repeats. He hadn’t tried to make anything of it before, but now... “ _Stiles_.”

“Stilinski. Is the name you’re trying to think of,” he says, low. His eyes are on the floor.

 _Sheriff_ Stilinski, in fact.

“Fuck,” Derek says. He’ll never eat rum’n’raisin again.

 


	12. Sunday 3:52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggery references in this chapter. Panic attack and mentions of past dubcon. Please read with care.

 

 

“So,” Stiles says shakily when they’re back in the Jeep. “This um. Changes things?” He swirls his spoon through his ice-cream and doesn’t eat.

Derek stares down at his hands. He has no idea what to do next. He’s fucking the underage son of the Sheriff. Of _his_ Sheriff. A man he’s going to run into professionally, if not socially.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to think, then closes his eyes at the reminder contained in Stiles’ scent. Because actually, this changes nothing at all.

Stiles Stilinski - is still _his Stiles_. Derek still... feels the way he does. It makes everything a thousand times more complicated, but.

“No,” he says. “Keep going.”

“You’re not uh. Cutting your losses?”

He turns his head and gives Stiles a long look. “No,” he says. He wants to say _it would take a hell of a lot more than your last name to make me do that_. But big declarations have never been Derek’s style.

Stiles lets out a long breath and passes his cup to Derek. “Okay,” he says, and starts the Jeep. “Okay.”

Derek directs him to a picnic spot about a half-mile from the highway, and when they get there and pull over he winds his window down and listens carefully for signs of human occupation. Nothing.

He sits there for longer than he needs to, thinking about what he’s about to do, the enormity of it. The can’t-take-backness of this. He knows how he feels. Knows he’s... committed. But once he’s done this, Stiles is in it too, even if he’s no longer interested in Derek. And yet - he can’t offer any kind of commitment to Stiles unless the kid knows the whole story.

He stares down at the phone he’s still holding in his hand, thinking of the message Laura had sent him that first day – only yesterday, he corrects himself.

Only _yesterday_. What is he _doing_?

_You deserve to be happy._

But this is his _mate_. It’s not Derek’s happiness that matters, it’s about caring for your mate, it’s about what _Stiles_ needs. And maybe what Stiles needs is to walk away from this clean.

“Derek? You... okay?”

He sets his phone on the dash and half-turns in his seat. The seat belt catches at his throat and he releases it impatiently. “There’s things you don’t know about me,” he begins, and Stiles makes a _well, duh_ face.

“Right. Like, your middle name. Favourite sport. Occupation. There’s many _many_ things we don’t know about each other although we do, now, know each other’s names,” he adds under his breath and he still sounds pissed about it. “Yay.”

“James. Baseball. Paramedic.”

Stiles blinks at him. _“Paramedic?”_ Derek stares steadily back.

“Paramedic.” And now his heart is thundering. “In Beacon Hills, naturally-” it’s not a question “-because that’s just my fucking life, of _course_ you are.” He presses his thumbs to his eyes and lets out a long breath. “So... you _also_ know my Dad?”

“Haven’t met him since I started work,” Derek says, “I’ve only been with the Department a few months.” He hesitates. “But I met him... _before_.” The night of the fire.

“Oh right. _Shit_. Sorry. Yeah. Uh, can this get any more awkward. Okay. So.”

“I heard he was injured. I wasn’t on that call.” Had been on the other side of town at a MVA while some deranged highschooler took potshots at the Sheriff and his deputy. But he’d heard plenty about it, knew the guys had been seriously worried Stilinski’s knee had been damaged beyond repair.

Stiles has gone very still. Derek just waits. He’s heard, the way you do in a small town, that there’s the possibility the Sheriff’s rehab won’t be effective enough for him to get back on the job. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if that’s why Stiles is in trouble, but he hadn’t brought the kid out here for that, and his rapid heartbeat is proof enough Stiles is not ready to talk.

When it becomes clear Stiles won’t speak, Derek says, “We’re probably going to run into each other again.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says on a rush of breath and lets his head thump back against the seat. “ _Awk_ -ward,” he sing-songs in what must be a quote.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

Stiles blinks at the roof, turns his head toward Derek. “Are you kidding? In what universe could it be cool for us to run into each other at the freakin’ departmental picnic or something and pretend we’ve never even met?”

His arms are flailing now, it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken something considering the limited room inside the Jeep, but then, he’s probably had lots of practise. “I had your _tongue_ in my _ass_ just _this morning_ , Derek, you’ve seen me completely unravelled and maybe this is some kind of blasé skill you learn in your early twenties but I really doubt I am gonna be able to just-”

“I meant maybe we don’t have to pretend.”

Stiles stumbles to a halt. “Whuh?”

“It depends on you,” Derek says and pretends his heart isn’t hammering like crazy. “Whether you’re out, or prepared to be out, for one. And whether you’re- stopping the...” he does a little awkward flailing himself because there’s no gesture that neatly conveys the message _sleeping with people for money_. “Because I. I can’t share.”

Stiles is gaping at him. “Are –are you _serious?_ Are you fucking- are you _serious?”_

“I’m serious. I don’t want this to be over.”

“No.” Stiles says vehemently.

It feels a little like someone shoved a mountain ash spear through his throat and Derek takes a quick breath and tries to think through it. Maybe he doesn’t want to come out? But then maybe Derek just doesn’t want to accept rejection when he hears it, because Stiles is still saying, _“No.”_

“Stiles-”

“No,” he shoves out of the Jeep and staggers away toward the trees. “That is not, this is not happening.”

“ _Stiles.”_ Derek follows more slowly, stomach churning. The kid’s heartbeat is erratic. He hadn’t expected- well. He hadn’t expected _this_.

He spins and points a finger at Derek, face dark with fury. “You are- okay, because, this is just cruel, man. You need to stop this. Now. Just stop.”

Derek freezes, hopelessly confused.

“You don’t just get to- to sit there and say that stuff. Just fucking, dangle it there and make it seem like- _no.”_ His voice is thick with near-tears and fury.

“I don’t understand. You’re angry with me,” he says carefully, “but I don’t know why.”

“You don’t know _why?_ You don’t- how can you fucking _not_ know _why?_ What are you, Derek, _challenged?_ _Look_ at you.” Stiles gestures, hands shaking.

“You’re this, fucking- you’ve got it all together, you’ve got your awesome job and your money and your goddam hot body and that scowling thing you do and I know I sound like an asshole right now because you must have this fucking hole in your gut where your family used to be but Derek, your life is good. It’s clean, it works, it makes sense.”

“And I’m just this,” he heaves in a huge breath, voice breaking, and runs his forearm over his face, hiding for a half-second, “this fucking _kid_ who can’t fix anything, and the first time it goes wrong how do I cope? I get on my _knees_ for _strangers_ , for money, Derek. I didn’t figure something out because – you maybe didn’t know this but I’m _so fucking smart,”_ he cries bitterly, “People are always telling me so. But I didn’t solve my problems with honest hard work or-”

“Stiles, stop.” 

He’s panting now, voice hoarse. “I’m fucking, just, _used up_ , okay, I’m _seventeen_ and I’ve already screwed it up so I don’t get to just, wave a fucking magic wand and have this awesome boyfriend and this cleaned-up life that suddenly works out just because you say so, or because you see something in me that _isn’t fucking there,_ Derek _, not anymore_ -”

Derek closes the gap between them with unnatural speed and wraps his arms around Stiles. He doesn’t want to hear any more. And it’s not helping Stiles to tear at himself like this.

“I want to be with you,” Derek says into his hair. Stiles shoves at him, hard, tries to kick, but he can’t beat Derek and he can’t make him go.

“I care what happens next, Stiles. I care if you get to stop doing this and I care if you go to college and have the life you were meant to have. It’s not just fucking, it never really was. I saw you and I wanted you, just _you_ , Stiles, right from the start. I’m not lying to you and I’m not trying to fix you because you’re not broken. You’re just hurt, and you need time to mend. To _heal_. To forgive yourself, maybe. And I want to be there when that happens.”

Stiles twists to the side and curls over Derek’s arm, face turned away, and just pants, deep and frantic. He’s not slowing down, it’s getting worse and Derek realizes a beat later this isn’t simple emotion, it’s a panic attack.

Training kicks in and he lowers them both gently to the ground, wraps a hand around both of Stiles’. He fumbles for a moment, then starts talking about the only thing he can think of that’s neutral. He talks about kid’s body, his breathing, his oxygenated blood and the journey it’s taking to keep Stiles alive. His other hand checks Stiles’ pulse, rests sometimes on his forehead or cheek or shoulder, a simple source of human contact. He keeps his tone is low and even, not a hint of worry and Derek has never been so grateful in his life for the knowledge and experience he picked up in his years in Seattle.

He talks about the young girl whose hand he held while they cut her and her unconscious mother out of a car and the elderly grandmother who would only stay on oxygen if Derek held it there, while her house burned down in front of her, how he had been shaking the whole time but unable to walk away.

He talks about the smell of smoke, how it was the hardest thing to overcome in his ride-alongs, how the first time he’d responded to the scene of a fire he’d nearly run, only the burst of a siren had cut through his flashback and given him a second chance to stick it out. He tells Stiles his most embarrassing secret, that he still can’t light the candles on a birthday cake.

A lot of time has passed, he’s counted twenty cars or more driving by on the distant highway before Stiles stirs, pulls away from Derek and sprawls out on the grass. The kid’s breathing has been steady and shallow for a good few minutes, long enough for Derek to admit to himself what he’s suspected since they got back in the car at Rosa’s.

He can’t do this to Stiles. Can’t drag him into the mess of werewolf secrecy and hunters and his possibly psychotic fucking uncle. Can’t show Stiles his true face.

Derek takes a few careful breaths of his own. It aches, the knowledge, but Stiles needs normalcy. Not another secret to keep, this one even larger than his own.

“Wow,” Stiles says finally, and blows out a breath, staring up at the sky.

He doesn’t look at Derek, who hesitates, then slides a few feet away and stretches out on the grass.

“When I try to impress a guy, I just pull out all the stops, huh?”

He smells of embarrassment, which Derek had expected, but there’s another scent combined, like a twist of sickness, it feels- purple-black to Derek, which makes no sense, smells don’t have a color. He’s focused on that when Stiles adds, “At least you handled it better than the last time that happened during a trick.”

Derek takes another shallow breath. Stiles hasn’t used that word before, _trick_ , and it’s not hard to guess that the kid is trying to piss him off. Trying to hurt him. It’s a defensive tactic, a good one, but there are very few distancing techniques Stiles can employ that Derek hasn’t mastered and made his own, years before.

Then the first part of the sentence slots into his brain. Click click click. _Handled it better than the last time_...

“What?” he breathes it. _Let it not be true._ Please.

Stiles takes another breath, faster this time, sharper, and adds carelessly, “Yeah, he was _not_ impressed. Kept on fucking like a train, right through it. I blacked out at some point, I think. Probably not enough oxygen. I guess the noises were annoying him so he wrapped his hand around my thr-”

Derek’s roar is the purest expression of black rage, the kind of blind grief and hatred he hasn’t felt since a night that smelled endlessly of smoke and loss.

He _leaps_ , all instinct, claws and fangs searching for an enemy and there is nothing. Nothing. He cannot defeat-

A familiar heartbeat is thundering behind him and Derek spins, arms out to defend. His eyes find his mate, zero in on the wide eyes, the panting breaths and the way he is shaking. Like waves on the beach, the wolf’s rage flows away and sense and understanding surge back into Derek’s mind.

Fuck. Oh _fuck._

 


	13. Sunday Sun

 

Stiles hasn’t moved. Thank Christ, he’s had enough sense not – no, Derek thinks, shamed, he was _too fucking_ _terrified_ – to run.

He shifts back, immediately, far too late and far too sudden. Stiles takes another hitching breath, and now he scrabbles back on the grass and dirt, fingers digging in. His scent is sharp, like glass and steel. “What. _What_ -”

Derek sits, folds himself up slowly until he’s cross-legged on the grass about six feet from Stiles, and waits, head down, for whatever comes next.

Two cars drive by on the highway. Then a truck with a crapped-out exhaust. A delivery van of some kind, two more cars, a motorbike. Another car, windows down and radio blaring. Stiles breath slows slightly, though in Derek’s peripheral vision he can see fine tremors in the kids’ body.

“What-the- _fuck_ -just-happened.” Stiles says it slowly, and very clearly.

Derek keeps his eyes on the ground. He doesn’t want to see fear or disgust on Stiles’ face.

He’d planned it so carefully. Had imagined leaving Stiles in the Jeep so he’d feel safe, protected, able to flee while Derek changed slowly. So slowly, at first he’d wonder if he was imagining what he was seeing.

Never. _Never_ would he have exposed Stiles to a furious wolf in an uncontrolled rage. He shudders at how completely he had-

“I lost control,” Derek says finally. One of his hands twitch, instinct telling him to reach out and touch his mate, reason telling him his touch would be about as welcome as Ebola right now.

“You lost control,” Stiles repeats. His heartbeat is levelling out. “That answer doesn’t seem quite complete to me. When I lose control I say _fuck_ a lot and talk too fast. Or I get mean with the sarcasm instead of amusingly witty. Worst case scenario, I dance. But never, Derek, not once in all my experiences of losing control have I ever _changed into some kind of fucking half-man half-beast_.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek finally manages. “I never- you never should have seen that.” He chances a quick glance up at Stiles. “I – you won’t believe me, but. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Stiles blinks at him and Derek looks away again. He’s suddenly glad he threw out his ice-cream untasted, it’d be making a reappearance right now otherwise.

“I. Um. Do believe you, I think,” he says slowly, and the sharp note in his scent recedes slightly. “But you haven’t answered my question. Because right now the only answer my brain can conjure involves Lon Chaney Jr.”

Derek risks another look.

“Oh my god. No way.” His jaw drops open. “You are- you’re fucking _kidding_ me. You’re an honest-to-God _werewolf?_ Werewolves are _real?”_

Derek can’t move. He hadn’t anticipated this- mess. He’s done something that can’t be undone and it was solely due to his own loss of control. He hasn’t changed without conscious thought since he was fifteen.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, low. “I’m, Stiles, I’m so sorry. I never meant.”

There’s a pause, and he wants to see Stiles’ face so badly, but he can’t make himself look up. Such a fucking coward.

“I, um, accept your apology?” Stiles says finally. His heartbeat has finally evened out, still too fast but. Not at panic levels anymore. “I’m not sure, though, if you’re sorry for scaring the ever living crap out of me or for spilling your secret in the first place.” There’s a long silence. “Uh, Derek?”

“Both, I guess,” he finally answers.

“Okay. Um. So, you don’t really need to apologize for showing me, uh, this.”

He gives a short nod. Kid has no idea.

“Derek,” Stiles’ voice is suddenly very gentle. “Would you look at me?”

It takes most of his courage, but he does, finally. They stare at one another for a long time. Stiles is pale, but not shocky, and Derek doesn’t move, lets him stare and think things over. Finally Stiles sighs. Pushes onto his hands and knees and crawls closer. Derek holds himself still.

“Lucky we weren’t in the apartment,” he begins, conversational. Then tilts his head sharply. “Or was it. That’s why we- did you bring me out here to show me- to tell me?”

Derek nods.

Stiles sighs again. “Trust you to go preverbal right when I’m absolutely ready to explode with questions.”

“Sorry.”

Stiles glances at him sidelong. Then lifts a hand, brings it to rest on Derek’s knee. “You can stop apologizing, you know.”

He doesn’t know. He could have _killed Stiles_. He looks down at that hand, at a gesture of trust he does not deserve.

“You didn’t hurt me. You scared the crap out of me, but that’s it. And it wasn’t even a totally bad scare, I mean, how _cool is this?_ Werewolves. _Fucking werewolves_. Unbelievable. My life is a summer blockbuster.”

Part of him wants to smile. He’d known it would be like this. Or hoped, anyway. But this isn’t right, he’d made the decision, the _right_ decision, to protect Stiles from this knowledge.

“Derek,” Stiles says, and the hand moves to cup his cheek. Then he sighs, and shifts closer, knees pressing against Derek’s thigh. Derek goes very still. “Look at me.”

He lifts his eyes obediently.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I could have,” he whispers. “That kind of rage, I could have killed you so easily and not even _noticed_ -”

“But you didn’t. And you had reason,” Stiles whispers. “I mean,” he swallows hard and his voice dips, ashamed. “I was baiting you. You know that. I knew exactly how you’d react if I told you that-”

Derek is breathing fast, claws lengthening and he grips his own thighs, hard, lets them dig through denim into his own skin and muscle where it’s safe. “Tell me who he was-”

“I don’t even know,” Stiles says softly. “And he really doesn’t matter anymore.”

Derek growls in the back of his throat but keeps it there. His mate is near, too close to risk.

“He doesn’t matter, because.” Stiles stops, hand tightening on Derek’s knee. “That part of things is over for me now.” He sounds like he’s afraid to believe it.

Derek searches his face, still breathing hard.

“Right?” he says, and his voice comes out very young and uncertain.

“Right,” he grinds out.

Stiles eyes him, and then, incredibly, he smiles. “Okay. _So_ many things are coming clear to me. The throat thing, for one, you really like that whole bared throat thing. You have like, animal instincts, even in this form, right? And you _marked_ me, that first night.”

Derek just stares, helpless, at _his mate_. Where is the withdrawal. The distance? The doubt? He changed into a monster and Stiles is curled in his lap talking about instinctive animal behavior.

“Are you- honestly okay with this?”

Stiles stops mid-sentence and blinks. “I. Um. Think I’m probably gonna reserve the right to freak out once or twice in the future? But yeah. Right now, anyway, I’m all right.”

Derek gives him a long look of disbelief.

“Derek,” he says patiently, “you brought me to a deserted wood at a moment when not one person on the face of the earth knows where I am. And what did you do?”

“Shifted into a fucking monster and nearly k-”

“You talked me down from a panic attack. You _snuggled_ me. I’m finding it very hard to see the monster in all this. Well. Except for the _actual_ monster teeth. And claws,” he amends.

Derek shakes his head. Stiles nudges forward a little bit. “Can I, can I see?” he asks tentatively.

Derek frowns, not sure what he means, then Stiles lifts his hand to Derek’s face and brushes his fingers over Derek’s lips. “The fangs. Can I see them?”

“You want-”

“You can do it slowly, right? Without uh, losing it?” At some point while Derek was freaking out, Stiles has moved closer and now he shifts to straddle Derek’s lap.

“You’re serious,” Derek says slowly. His hands curl around Stiles’s hips automatically. In three seconds flat he’ll be hard. Stupid no-brain dick.

“Yeah I’m serious.” Stiles voice is suddenly husky. “Show me those babies.”

“I-” Derek hesitates, and Stiles takes advantage and slides his thumb along Derek’s bottom lip. He breathes in deep, lips parting on instinct and their eyes lock as his tongue curls around Stiles’ thumb.

“Show me,” Stiles breathes, amber eyes hypnotic in the sunlight, and Derek’s fangs push through, achingly slow, so careful not to nick Stiles’ fragile skin.

He opens his mouth a little wider, feels them reach full extension and keeps his eyes on Stiles’ face. “Woah,” the kid breathes, eyes locked on Derek’s mouth. He leans in closer, and Derek feels the faintest brush against his gum before Stiles’ thumb strokes down over the smooth curve of Derek’s fang. “That is completely fucking amazing.” His heartbeat is steady and true, no sudden burst of sweat from adrenaline or panic. He’s truly unafraid, genuinely fascinated, and Derek finds his own heart thudding harder. He’s terrified, suddenly, that he’ll say or do something _else_ to fuck this up. How many chances will Stiles give him?

Stiles licks his lips, completely unselfconscious, and Derek’s hands tighten on his hips. Those amber eyes lift to his. “Amazing,” he says, and glances down at Derek’s mouth again, this time stroking over Derek’s bottom lip before he raises his eyes again.

“I can kiss you, right? You won’t bite me, or whatever, if that’s even how it works, I mean, we’ve k-”

Derek kisses him.

It’s gentle, and contained, and he can feel his own sudden panic soothe at Stiles’ closeness, his pliability beneath Derek’s hands.

In the middle of it, Stiles jerks suddenly and pulls back, wide eyed. Derek has his hands in mid-air before he’s finished pulling away but it’s not a panic attack, not fear. Instead the kid bursts into uncontrolled peals of laughter. Derek’s never seen him so lost, huge belly laughs shaking his entire body, he nearly slams their heads together which seems to just set him off even worse.

Stunned, Derek stares, hands loosening, and then he feels the first lick of hurt, or embarrassment or whatever, because he’d been, he’d felt – kissing like that, slow and sweet and gentle – after he’d shown Stiles what he-

He lets go and slides out from under Stiles, who is choking on laughter, huge unattractive snorts of it, and Derek turns his head away. Okay. _Okay_. Stiles’ emotions are his own. And he’s entitled to his reactions. Hysteria. Whatever. It just. Hurts.

“Oh shit,” Stiles gasps, and a hand grasps at Derek’s arm, “shit, sorry, I know, I’m an _asshole_ , babe, wait, I’m not,” he’s still fighting back laughter as he pulls Derek around to face him. “Shit, just, give me a minute.” His hand never shifts its grip from Derek’s shirt and after a while he gets control of himself.

“I’m sorry, God, shit, _sorry,_ don’t- just give me a second.” Finally he shakes his head and climbs back into Derek’s lap, shoving and arranging Derek until they’re pressed together again. It’s a silent apology that eases the tension in Derek’s back.

Stiles is still grinning into Derek’s hair, shaking his head. “I just. Do you remember, that first night, there was something I was going to say or do, when I came back to the apartment.”

He’d kissed Stiles mid-sentence, hadn’t been able to wait another second. Derek nods.

“And then by the time you were done with me I didn’t have the first clue what I was going to say. To be honest, I was lucky to know my own name. Well. I just remembered the rule I was going to set that night,” and he starts to laugh again, shaking his head. Then he raises a hand, one finger raised, trying for stern. “ _No_ kissing.”

Derek blinks, then his lips twitch. He fights it but after a moment, starts to grin, shakes his head.

Stiles is already laughing again. “What a _dumbass_. What a pair we make. We must be the worst hooker/client combination in the history of hookers and clients.”

Derek’s thumbs brush over his hips.“Or the best.”

 

 


	14. Just Another Sunday

 

 

They spend a good half-hour twined together on the grass. Stiles lets the questions just burble out, Derek still seems a little stunned, bemused maybe, who knows when this will wear off and he’ll be stoic!Derek again.

So he doesn’t censor himself – are vampires real (don’t know, never met one) – can a human be turned (yes but only by the bite of an alpha) – why don’t you turn into a full wolf, the movies do it way better (because only alphas do, _seriously, Stiles?)_ – what about unicorns (Jesus, I don’t know) and maybe that last one used up all his credit points so he switches tactics _._

“So if you’ve got all these wolfy instincts, I bet you’d love a good hard rut in the woods,” Stiles says casually. He’s still idly petting Derek’s face, which is probably weird since the other man is no longer shifted, it’s just his normal human face right now, the one of which Stiles has become extremely fond. But Derek’s not objecting so he keeps right on going. “Am I right.”

Derek gives him a flat look of disbelief. “You want to fuck.”

Stiles’ lips twitch, because that is _not_ a flashlight in Derek’s pocket. “I’m just sayin’,” he says with a shrug. “I’m here, man, you’re here.” He starts forward, then suddenly freezes. “Wait a minute. It was the full moon last night- is _that_ what this is? Are you this horny every _month?_ Jeez-”

“No. Stiles-” He closes his eyes. “Not. No. The full moon is- it doesn’t affect me like that. I mean, it has some impact, I generally go for a run, the wolf is closer to the surface, that’s true. But.” He swallows. “This – every now and then there’s a – we call it the mating moon.”

“Mating moon,” Stiles repeats. He’s stroking Derek’s shoulders absently, eyes tracing over the wolf’s body, rediscovering everything in the light of new knowledge.  He slants a sly glance up at Derek. “You’re not gonna give me a bunch of little wolf cubs, right?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Unless you’re somehow concealing your secret identity as a woman, or mutant with a uterus, no.”

“Color me relieved. Mating moon,” he says again, musing. “Explains the horniness. But... you’ve never done _this_ before, so...” he says, slower, recalling past conversations and managing to skirt around the _paying for it_ part. “Never been single during a mating moon?”

Derek snorts. “I’ve been single for every mating moon I’ve ever endured,” he says flatly, ignoring the look of disbelief Stiles gives him.

How is it possible someone _this hot_ – who also wears a _uniform_ , fuck, there’s a mental image he’s never going to lose – doesn’t have hotties just lined up around the block?

“I’ve pretty much been single since – I was a teenager,” Derek adds, instead of _since the fire._

 _Oh babe_ , Stiles thinks, heart aching. Derek must _scowl_ people into submission, and when that doesn’t work he broods at them until they back off. Good thing Stiles is made of sterner stuff than that.

“Usually I just- wait for it to be over.” He slants a glance up at Stiles. “When I’m on my own it’s not- well. It’s never been this... intense.”

Okay. Stiles is just going to wrap _that_ concept around himself like a warm blanket. He takes a breath to steady himself. “So...you just- what? Hibernate at the apartment?”

Derek shrugs.

Stiles gapes. “And now I find myself amazed all over again that _there is no TV_.”

Derek shakes his head, “Would you let it go about the TV?”

 _“Never,”_ he shoots back, unrepentant.

They get into a weird kind of wrestling match after that, not really involving much other than general close contact and grinning at each other. When Stiles is victorious – pinned beneath Derek, naturally. What other outcome would be worth fighting for? – he lets his body go limp and watches the feral light appear in Derek’s eye. Oh yeah. A lot of stuff is making more sense now. Good thing his Dad is such a fan of David Attenborough. Stiles has absorbed so much predator/prey behaviour, this wolf isn’t going to know what hit him.

He lies there, staring up at the Derek’s face and the sky beyond and lets recent events filter through his brain without going too deep. He’s not ready to think about his own meltdown, other than the fact that he feels a bit like he’d unknowingly been carrying a large stone in his stomach all these weeks, and now it’s gone.

The wolf stuff? Well. He’s reserving the right to have a tiny _tiny_ freakout about that in private, later.

 _Werewolves_ , man! Oh, it is gonna _kill_ him not to tell Scott. He’s going to have to ask Derek about that at some point. How can he _not_ tell Scott?

Derek is snuffling at his neck when Stiles’ mouth re-engages without permission.

“Hey, how come you had that kind of money just lying around?”

Whoops. Hadn’t meant to bring up the money/hooker thing again after his recent outburst. But he can’t help it, rabbity little brain Wants To Know. He knows what cops and firefighters make, and it does _not_ lead to huge wads of cash laying around the house. That’s strictly the province of drug dealers and television evangelists, thank you very much.

Derek goes very still. Yay. Well done Stiles, Dumbass of the Year.

“It’s. From the fire.”

Now Stiles freezes. “It’s- what? Like, the insurance money?” Oh God. Oh _Jesus_ , the insurance payout from Derek’s many dead family members is _sitting in his Jeep_ -

“No,” Derek says, head down and voice low. “Not insurance. More like - reparation.”

“Reparation?” What the actual _fuck?_

Derek slides back a little and Stiles just wraps around him like a vine. He might not have wolfy instincts but he knows when someone is dying on the inside. _No way_ he is letting Derek go.

“What do you know about the fire?”

Stiles swallows. Okay, so he reads his Dad’s files which is not exactly legal and is probably pretty morally corrupt, but – how else is he ever going to _know_ stuff? Just once, though, he wishes he’d kept his nose out of things. “I. Um. It was. Arson. But the insurer’s first finding was accidental. And then the...”

“The insurance investigator came forward and admitted he’d been paid off.”

“Yeah.” Stiles keeps breathing carefully. His Dad had never been satisfied by the way this case had played out. It had all made _sense_ , not like a frame-up, but. He’d sat up night after night, puzzling over it. Why had the guy come forward in the first place, when no-one had even suspected his involvement?

“My uncle.” Derek takes a slow, careful breath. “He knew. Who had set the fire. Knew she must have paid the guy off. He.”

“Paid him a visit,” Stiles provided cautiously, well able to imagine it. A guy carrying that much crazy threatens you? Yeah, you’d pretty much confess to anything. “So, uh. Peter’s a werewolf, too?”

Derek nods once.

“How did he know who did it? Know about the insurance dude?”

“He _smelled_ her,” Derek said savagely.

Stiles doesn’t want to say the name. They know who set the fire. The insurance guy implicated her, and then she went missing.

More long nights with his Dad sitting awake, staring at the interview transcripts, the many, many questions he had asked Peter Hale and Chris Argent and their families. But the alibi held. Kate Argent just disappeared, and her own brother swore Peter was with him the whole time, trying to track her down.

She’d never been seen again.

“Your uncle killed Kate. Right?”

Now Derek slides back and Stiles lets him go. Because this- this is. _Big_. And he realizes suddenly Derek won’t answer, has enough loyalty to Peter not to compromise him, and will never make Stiles keep that secret from his father. “Do you know why she set the fire?” Derek says instead.

Stiles shakes his head helplessly. That was the third thing that had bothered Stiles’ Dad. What the hell was her _motive?_ She’d been having an affair with an unidentified man – suspected to be a Hale, never proven. And no-one could be sure of her intended victims. Had she meant to kill the entire family, or not?

“No,” he says with difficulty. “I don’t know why.”

A beat later Stiles remembers with a rush that his father’s list of ‘the Hale men’ list had included Derek’s father, uncle, and possibly Derek himself. The Sheriff had never told Stiles his private suspicions about the affair, or whether the victims had been accidental or not. _Little kids_ , for fuck’s sake. Stiles had woken with nightmares for weeks after seeing the crime scene photos.

“The Argent family are hunters,” Derek says, and Stiles stares at him blankly. “They hunt our kind,” Derek adds, and _ohhhhh_.

“So it was- because you’re werewolves?” Stiles says, breathless. He is suddenly thinking of Allison, Allison _Argent_ who caught Scott’s eye a year ago and has been the centre of his best friend’s thoughts ever since.

Derek’s face is like stone.

Stiles just sits there. He’s never felt so much like a kid, so completely out of his depth.

“The Hale pack is old. We’re born wolves, not bitten, it’s part of us,” he says, voice low, eyes far away. “We don’t harm humans, half of my _family_ were human. We live in peace, we break no laws and we live by the code.”

 _There’s a code?_ Stiles wants to ask, but even his rabbit brain knows when to shut up.

“The hunters know us, they leave us alone on that condition. Kate didn’t like the status quo.”

Fucking _psycho_.

“She slept with Peter,” Stiles says suddenly, with deep certainty. That guy had clearly been – not right in the head. Guilt would do that to ya, he guesses.

“She tried me first,” Derek said, voice rough, and wait- _what?_

“What?”

“She... came on to me.” He shrugs. “I met up with her once. Made out in an empty classroom at the high school.”

Holy fuck.

“It made me feel sick.” He moves his shoulders, like he’s trying to shift a weight. “I thought it meant – well, I already knew I was gay but I guess I was... curious. Anyway, I avoided her after that.”

“So she went after Peter instead.”

“He was married,” Derek says, voice carefully flat.

Stiles takes a breath and bites his lip. Yeah. Guilt. Olympic-size swimming pools of guilt.

“He and my Aunt Suki took care of us whenever Mom was having another baby, or if she and Dad had to go away.” There’s another long pause, then Derek says slowly, “She could do the most amazing handstands. Andrew was always bugging her to show him. She taught Laura and me how to roll our own sushi.” His voice is heavy, and Stiles swallows, wonders if he’s ever told anyone these things before.

There’s silence for a long time, then Stiles says tentatively. “So Peter had an affair with Kate, not knowing who she was.”

Derek nods, staring off into the distance. “They came up for my Dad’s birthday. Peter must have snuck out to meet Kate and she used whatever he told her to trap them in the house. But my little sister-”

He hesitates, blinks once and then pushes on. “She dropped the carton of eggs and broke them.  Mom sent Laura into town to buy more so she could make Dad’s cake. Peter went along to supervise because she was just learning to drive. I jumped in at the last minute, my brother Jacob was bugging the hell out of me about the damn Nintendo-”

They sit in silence then, Derek’s hand covering his face.

“We smelled the smoke all the way in town. But by the time we got back...”

Stiles can feel tears tracking down his face. He’s not embarrassed. Some things deserve tears. The sounds of the forest fold around them while Derek tears methodically at the grass stalks within his reach.

“The Argents,” he finally says. “They live by the code. Kate broke it. “

 _So her brother helped Peter to kill her, or let him do it, and gave him an alibi_ , Stiles thinks, but he doesn’t ask. Won’t ever ask again. That’s Allison’s fucking _aunt_ , her _father_ , he realizes all of a sudden, and wonders how much she knows.

“The money,” Derek says, and Stiles actually jolts. He’d forgotten what started this whole conversation. Derek is staring down at his hands. “There was insurance money,” Derek says on a sigh. “Normal stuff - life insurance, the house. I used some while I was studying, the rest is waiting for a rainy day or a house of my own or whatever. But this money – the cash. It’s part of the hunters’ laws and traditions. Taking away our family with no justification – there’s consequences for that. Reparations to pay.”

“That’s. Blood money,” Stiles says, and he can’t hold back his distaste.

Derek’s eyes are remote, fixed on the treeline. “I didn’t want it. Couldn’t spend it. They just showed up one day, with these three carved fucking hawthorn chests, one for each of us. We couldn’t refuse them, it would be an insult, restart the whole mess. I wanted to get rid of my share but Laura-” Derek’s voice cuts off.

Stiles waits.

“She’s the alpha,” Derek finally says. “She ordered me to keep it. I had to obey.”

“That’s what set you off,” Stiles whispers. “Why you ran.”

Derek looks at him for the first time, offers a tiny smile. “That money’s been sitting in my apartment all these years,” he finally says. “I couldn’t spend it. Everything-”

He silent for a long time and then he says simply, “It all would have smelled of smoke.”

Stiles flinches at that, takes a struggling breath. “Derek. I can’t-”

 _“No,”_ Derek says, and a warm hand suddenly covers Stiles’ forearm. “Don’t. I know what you’re- Stiles, don’t you get it? This is the only possible use for that money I could ever stomach. You need it. It’s for a good purpose. My mother-” he swallows hard and closes his eyes. “She’d be _proud._ ”

 

 


	15. I Scream Sunday

 

A short time later Derek stills, lifts his head and sighs. “Company’s coming,” he says. They’ve had this little picnic area to themselves for a long time, he supposes, considering it’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.

Stiles lifts his head. “Huh?”

“Car just turned off the highway,” he says, and tilts his head in the general direction.

“You can hear that?”

He shrugs.

“Cool,” Stiles murmurs to himself. “Okay. Uh. Gimme a second.” He’s halfway to the Jeep when he hesitates. “Unless – you wanna go?”

Derek shakes his head slowly, eyes on Stiles. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Like your natural habitat, huh?” he grins as he heads back to the Jeep, Stiles’ door still hanging wide open.

“Cheeky little shit,” Derek grumbles, and gets to his feet.

Stiles climbs inside the Jeep, locks Derek’s door and then climbs back out, locking his own door. He crosses to join Derek at the treeline, and they walk into the woods in silence, Derek’s senses mostly focused on the newcomers behind them, making sure they’re not interested in the Jeep, don’t recognize it.

“So... enhanced hearing,” Stiles says. “Must be nice.”

“Has its moments.” It’s a middle-aged couple bringing their dog out for a run, by the sound of it. Derek sighs when they enter the trees on the same side of the woods, then shrugs and nudges Stiles off to the right.

“Any other senses?”

“Smell and sight, too.”

“Hmm. So... you basically have the wolf senses whichever form you’re in?”

“Close enough,” Derek says. “It’s still processed by a human body, so there’s some drop-off.” He blinks a little, looking away. He’s forgotten how nice it is to just talk about his life without censoring himself. His brother Andrew had loved experimenting with the whole thing, endlessly fascinated by the wolves surrounding him.

In the next moment he loses track of anything that isn’t Stiles. He’s kissed, thoroughly, long fingers sliding through his hair, legs tangling. Then Stiles lifts his head.

“Show me what you can do,” he says, breathless.

Derek grins.

He leaps, deliberately dramatic, and rebounds off trees so swiftly he hears Stiles suck in a quick breath. In the canopy, out of sight, he shifts, still a little leery of letting Stiles see that, considering the last time. Then he hurls himself out of the tree, over Stiles’ head, waits until the kid whips in his direction and then he runs, fast as he can, a long arc that would take a human a good twenty minutes at top speed, but close enough that Stiles will still be able to hear the rapid thud of his feet.

He reappears at Stiles side and shifts back to fully human as the kid startles and turns toward him.

“Jesus,” he says, and laughs. “That’s- that’s _amazing_.”

Derek takes a few deep breaths, soaking up the unafraid-ness of Stiles’ scent. The kid’s eyes travel over his body, stop on the fresh tears in Derek’s jeans where his claws had dug in. “What- what’s this?”

Derek shrugs.

“No, no shrugging Mr Stoic, what-” Derek can see the moment he works it out, the glance that flicks from Derek’s harmless human hands and back again. Stiles takes a steadying breath, then reaches out to touch. He’s working it out, and Derek stays silent and still until he says. “You- you heal, too?”

“Yes.”

Stiles nods to himself, and then Derek suddenly doesn’t want to talk anymore. He moves forward, lets the motion of his body manoever Stiles backwards, arms automatically flailing, until he bumps up against a tree. “Wh-”

Derek leans in for a kiss that’s more effective than any explanation.

 

 

 

Stiles is openly moaning when the kiss ends. It was just a kiss, fuck’s sake, but he is _shaking_. There’s something about being out here, in the open, in Derek’s element, seeing his true nature. It’s impossible not to feel vulnerable, dizzy, weakened – though that’s mostly his knees, and it happens every time they kiss.

But this isn’t going to be just a kiss.

Derek keeps his eyes locked on Stiles, works the button fly of his jeans slowly, like the porniest fucking tease of all time.

Pop, the top button comes free. Stiles breath is coming faster. Pop, the next button, and he licks his lips, watches Derek’s eyes drop and darken. Pop, the next button slips through and now Stiles can feel his jeans easing away from his hips. Pop, another button and the back of Derek’s fingers brush against his straining cock.

“Shit,” he says shakily, “ _Fuck_ , Derek.”

Pop, the last button works free and Derek’s mouth covers his, opening him up for another filthy, hungry kiss.

Stiles is moaning freely by the time Derek drops to his knees and he chokes as Derek frees his cock, shoves his jeans down just enough and swallows him down to the root.

“Oh God,” he says, “this is, this is not, uh, _hmm_ , not going to take l-”

Derek slides off to mouth at Stiles’ balls and his knees give just a little, hands flying out to grab Derek’s shoulders, his hair. _“Derek.”_

He catches a glint of teeth as the bastard grins, then Derek stills abruptly and turns his head to the right, staring into the trees.

“Wh-what is it?” Stiles brains are currently the consistency of maple syrup.

Derek doesn’t answer. Stiles glances down at him, follows his glance and sees a big dumb dog peering between trees, eyes locked with Derek. Stiles glances back, sees Derek’s head tilt forward, eyes flashing that same amazing blue as before. The dog drops to its belly in clear submission.

“ _Patches?_ Paaatches,” comes a human voice and oh, Stiles suddenly gets it. Damn, suddenly the woods aren’t big enough?

“Go,” Derek husks, and wow, that raspy voice just gets Stiles every time.

Patches lets out a soft _yip_ , and goes.

Stiles grabs hold of Derek and hauls him to his feet, gasps when the denim covering Derek’s hard cock brushes against his own erection.

“Get, I want,” he mutters against Derek’s lips, fumbling with the zipper. “I want-”

And then Derek’s jeans are open, two sets of hands making fast work of underwear and their cocks brush and Stiles moans. He’s fumbling in his pocket, damn his jeans are almost around his knees now, “Shirt,” he gasps. “Shirt _off_.” Derek’s shirts should _always_ be off.

Derek clearly agrees, because both their shirts seem to evaporate – wow, there are _so many_ good uses for those wolfy superpowers – and Stiles finally has the lube he’d taken from the Jeep in his hands. He squirts way too much of it into his palm and then there’s the slick slide, both of them inhaling sharply at the coolness that turns swiftly to heat.

“Oh, _ohhh_ ,” Stiles moans, completely unashamed, and Derek leans forward to kiss him, deep and hungry and the rumble of sound that comes from that perfect chest has Stiles’ breath hitching. God, fuck, he so very much loves kissing Derek.

His hands keep working them both, and Stiles’ brain is buzzing, the dominance of Derek’s sheer physical presence, his beauty, his strength all tumbling around in his head with the memory of Derek beneath him just last night, taking Stiles inside that body, begging for it, fuck, this is, this is bigger than he’d thought, and he’d already thought he was in deep trouble.

It’s both of them. It is. Derek has – not _submitted_ – but he has given Stiles privileges beyond the sexual that no-one else gets, he understands that without asking.

“Fuck,” Stiles gasps. This is _serious_. This is _real_. His heart’s not getting broken, and that’s almost as terrifying as if it _was_. “Derek. _Derek_. Jesus, you, you’re just-”

And he’s talking too much, because Derek’s given up on kissing and is working his way down Stiles’ throat, but that’s okay, that’s good too, his hips hitch as Derek sucks a hickey into his throat, low down. Derek breathes in deep, rumbles again and rolls his hips against Stiles and he says without thinking, “Do I smell like you?”

And Derek _bites_ , hips jerking, hands sliding down Stiles’ flanks and inside his loosened jeans to cup his ass, fingers kneading.

“Do _you_ smell like me?”

Derek moans, helpless, mouth opening over Stiles’ nipple and he moans back, balls tightening, and then Derek stiffens, still for just a second before he rolls his hips again, cocks sliding through Stiles’ fist and he lets out a stuttering kind of sound, not even enough breath for a moan.

“I’m close,” Derek mutters into the skin of Stiles’ chest. “Fuck,” he mutters, “you’re gorgeous.”

“Oh God,” Stiles gasps, because that is _crazy_ but it totally works, “Yeah, yeah, I’m-” and then, right fucking _then_ he hears what Derek must have already heard, human fucking voices coming from their left-

- _don’t know why he would just run off like that, he’s never - well he is still an animal, Carol, no matter how well trained-_

He freezes, no, god _damn_ it, no and then Derek lifts his head, eyes dark, face flushed. “Don’t stop,” he says, voice guttural, and that is the fucking hottest thing Stiles has ever seen or heard.

“ _Ohh_ ,” is all he manages, then bites his lip. Fuck. He can’t be quiet, he’ll never-

- _and then all that whimpering business just now? What on earth-_

Derek’s big hand covers his, working both their cocks and Stiles bites his lip harder, whimpering a little. His balls draw up and he’s gonna _shout_ , fuck, he can’t keep it in-

Derek other arm appears beside his cheek, palm flat against the trunk of the tree. “ _Bite_ ,” he rumbles, low, and Stiles sees the flash of blue in his eyes as he says it. So... not just practicality. A wolf thing too. A wolf that must be half-starved of affection, given the way Derek has been hiding it.

_-probably found a smell he didn’t recognize, Carol._

He turns his head, feels the heat of climax wash over him as he opens his lips and licks at Derek’s forearm. Derek gasps, and when Stiles flicks a glance at him, his fangs are extending, only just visible past those wet, parted lips.

Fuck, Stiles closes his eyes, turns his head and lets it happen.

His orgasm rips through him and he _bites_.

 

***

 

Bert and Carol and Patches, thankfully, have fucked off to God knows where. Derek is almost grateful to them. He lifts his arm, watches the bite mark that is almost completely faded. He sighs silently and lowers his arm to pull Stiles closer.

Not that they can really get much closer, curled up together in a sunlit patch of grass. Still. He doesn’t mind trying. He breathes in deep, lets his eyes close on the feeling of rightness. Long moments of stillness stretch out between their breaths.

“I did- _try_ , y’know.” Stiles is whispering, lips moving against the light fuzz on Derek’s belly. It’s only slightly sticky, he- there may have been a licking frenzy during the afterglow. It’s hard to contain the wolf, now that Stiles knows.

“Hmm?”

“I did try to- other things. A normal job.”

Derek tenses, then forces himself to relax when the second realization hits that Stiles is - finally -  talking about it. “I believe you,” he says after a moment, and just waits.

Stiles is silent for a long time, head resting on Derek’s chest, watching their hands and toying with Derek’s fingers.

“My.” He stalls out, tries again. “My Nanna.” He sighs. “The GFC, it, I dunno, messed up her condo’s management company, I think. They didn’t have proper insurance anymore or something? I didn’t really pay that much attention to the details, it was almost two years ago, but the bank was gonna call in her mortgage over it, so Dad spent his savings and then redrew on our house so he could pay off her debt, let her have some peace of mind.”

“Sounds like the right thing to do.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs. “Definitely. I mean, y’know, she stopped looking like she was gonna fold up from the weight of all the worry, once she got over the yelling at Dad for interfering and the embarrassment of needing help. She doesn’t like, I don’t know, admitting she can’t do everything on her own.”

“Really,” Derek says, desert dry. “Lucky she didn’t pass that on to anyone else in the family.”

“Shut up,” he says without heat.

There’s a pause, and Derek thinks about leaving it, then says tentatively, “So, that was a while ago?” Because he’s as certain as he can be that Stiles’ time on the street has been recent and short.

“Yeah.” He noses up, presses his face into Derek’s shirt where it’s bunched over his chest.

“You don’t have to tell me any of this, y’know,” Derek says, just to be clear. But Stiles brought this up, and he suspects the kid needs to tell someone all the ugly details. He’ll never tell anyone in Beacon Hills, and bottling it up will likely do a boatload of harm.

Derek _knows_ repression. He doesn’t want that for Stiles.

“I know.” He doesn’t move, face pressed into Derek’s shirt. Finally there’s a ragged sigh. “She- she didn’t want anyone to know, but she was putting her medications on her credit card. Had to, cause she was in the donut hole or whatever, where your insurance doesn’t cover all the costs. Which is,” he shrugs, “fine, I guess. Well, not _fine_. But. Apparently a lot of seniors do it. It’s just- when she was trying to cover the mortgage herself, she missed some payments and triggered the penalty and just, never caught up.”

“The debt just kept on growing, right,” Derek says with a sigh. He’s heard that tale of woe before, too.

Stiles nods. “And then her neighbour found out, cos Nanna was, like, arguing with the bank on the phone and got loud. So went I went down to see her after Dad was hurt, Mrs Lomax cornered me in the car park and told me. Thirty grand in the hole, and it’s growing all the time.”

Derek breathes deep.

“She has a bad heart,” Stiles mumbles. “The worry could kill her.”

He cups the back of Stiles’ head and feathers his fingers over the nape. “Your Dad?”

His body tenses up all over. “They’re already making noises about _his_ heart,” he choked out. “Like the surgery strained it, like maybe they won’t clear him to go back to work. It’d kill him to give up the job.” He sighs. “He’d already talked to our bank about freezing the mortgage payments til he was back on the job and I couldn’t- couldn’t put _that_ on him, too, and the extra stress might’ve-”

“Okay,” Derek soothes. “Okay. Ssh.”

“I got a job,” Stiles pushes on, and he just sounds tired now. “I waited tables on weekends but that wasn’t enough, I needed to work weeknights as well. Then I got worried Dad would hear about it and want to know why I was working so much. So I came here instead and started at this pizza dive, but between the hours and the driving and visiting the hospital, I was so fucking _exhausted_ all the time-”

He sighs. “And then my grades started to slip and they – well, not Mr Harris who is a total _douche_ – but the others were all going easy ‘cause of Dad but I knew that wouldn’t last and if my GPA slips then there’s no scholarship and everyone, they’d – Dad, he’d be so fucking _disappointed_ -”

Stiles is choking and Derek wraps his arms around tight, blinks at how natural it feels and it hits him then, all of a sudden, just how close he and Stiles have gotten in the past two days. Jesus. The things he’s told Stiles, the things the kid has confided in turn, to Derek. “It’s okay,” he’s whispering, soothing. Derek Hale, who hasn’t offered a soothing word to another human being for _years_ , outside of his job.

He is taking care of his own, and it feels _right_.

“...this guy,” Stiles is saying, voice raw, “total asshole, he used to I don’t know, harass me or whatever about my cocksucking mouth and what he’d love to do and this one night he just, I was exhausted and pissed and so fucking _frustrated_ and I just said, yeah, asshole, you couldn’t afford me and then he just, the money was just _there_ and it was as much as I’d make in a whole fucking night of bussing tables-”

“Sshh, Stiles,” he says, turns his head and lets his breath flow over Stiles’ temples, his cheek, his ear, an affirmation of life, of affection, “All right.”

“I threw up, afterwards,” he says dully. “Lucky I was already taking out the trash. And then I just. Just thought. Fuck it. _Fuck it_ , y’know, why the fuck _not,_ what the hell did it _matter,_ I was already-”

“It’s okay,” Derek says helplessly.

“I’m not,” Stiles licks his lips. He takes a deep breath. “I know what it looked like, that night we met. But. I’m not, on the streets like that.”

Derek blinks. He lifts his head and meets his mate’s eyes.

Stiles sighs. “Look, I’m a cop’s kid, okay? And Beacon Hills may not be a seething metropolis but even there you see enough pathetic cases in Booking to figure out that working the streets gets pretty ugly, damn quick, no matter _how_ careful you are.”

Derek takes another breath, easier this time. The hard ache in his chest is unwinding a little, letting go of some of the images he’s seen in the line of duty. Prostitutes shrugging off rape with dull rage in their eyes, the sudden nasty scuffles over turf-

“There’s a guy who runs an agency, I’d heard some of the other deputies talk about him, kind of grudgingly approving. He... takes care of his people. He makes his money, sure, but they’re safe and clean. No nasty surprises with the clients. I went to him.” Stiles swallows. “Turns out a young guy with a certain look can make... enough.”

“And Friday night?”

Stiles shrugs. “I have- _had_ a client with a rentboy kink,” he says, low. “He liked to pick me up from the kerbside, drop me back there.”

“Okay,” Derek says. Okay. He closes his eyes. He’s so damn _relieved_ , and that makes so much sense. What Stiles has been doing isn’t exactly sunshine and roses but it’s a shitload safer and less nasty than what Derek had pictured. It explains why he’s still... _Stiles_. He takes a deep breath, smells the nerves that have the kid jittering and realizes that despite everything Derek’s already said, he’s still waiting for rejection.

“You can let it go, Stiles,” Derek says, low and even. “It’s behind you now. You can let it go.” There’s silence for a long time, then he takes a deep breath. “I’m just gonna – tell you something now. You don’t have to answer me, or say anything at all. Okay?”

Stiles’s head moves against his chest.

“There’s another ten thousand dollars of that money left. I’m never going to spend it. Not ever.” Stiles has gone very still. “On Monday, I’m going to take that 10K and stash it in the apartment. I won’t ever look at it again. If you. If anything goes wrong. If your Nanna gets into trouble. If your Dad’s job goes south. Or for college. You go there, and you take it, and you use it.”

Derek takes a deep breath and licks dry lips. He can’t make the declaration he wants to. But he can hint around it. Stiles’ sharp brain will come around to the knowledge in time. “That money’s not mine, it never was. It’s been sitting and waiting for... something. _Someone_. My wolf recognized you, your scent, that first night of the mating moon. So if you never need it, then one day you go and take it and give it to someone who does.”

Neither of them moves for a long time. Stiles is breathing fast, face hidden.

“I’m not going to ask you to promise me, because I know you’ll do this. For me. For my family. I can’t touch that money, Stiles. I’m asking you to take that weight from me. Make it so I can breathe again.”

Stiles presses his damp face against Derek’s chest, and his fingers dig in to Derek’s flanks. They don’t speak, but when Derek lets his eyes close, and breathes in deep, the woods smell fresh and clean. Not a trace of smoke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to JadeSymb for advice and ideas on the teen hooker backstory. I wanted to be as realistic as possible considering I have no knowledge at all, and she was the one who pointed out that hookers on the streets really don't make much, there's a reason they all look so desperate. It's because they *are*.  
> It really aint Pretty Woman, guys.


	16. Sunday You Need Love, Monday Be Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been forgetting to mention Diva0789 who has been a darling beta-ing this monster for me. Thank you.

 

He lies awake in bed that night in the glow of the moon, thinking over the past few days, over every conversation they’ve had, the little cues he’s been learning and re-learning. In the early hours he rolls onto his side and watches Stiles, not actively staring so much as storing it up, this beautiful kid with the heart too fierce to bother with its own protection.

Dawn comes and brings with it the weight of real life. The mating moon is over.

He’s already eaten and set the bowl back on the table by the time Stiles’ phone alarm starts, blaring some god-awful song that Derek immediately tunes out. The kid stumbles into the kitchen with one hand raised, already apologizing. “Believe me, I hate it too,” he says through a yawn.

He’s scratching his bare chest, cheek creased from the pillow and he’s utterly, utterly beautiful. Derek just stares, heart aching.

“Dad’s idea,” he adds. “It’s the only way to guarantee I’ll actually get out of bed.”

It takes far too long for Derek to pull himself together, Stiles is halfway through his cup of coffee before he takes a deep breath and forces himself to just fucking _do it_.

“Stiles.” Derek waits until he glances over, face smooth and mildly curious. “When is your birthday?”

Stiles freezes.

And Derek knows he was right. That wildly rocketing heartbeat the first night, he’d taken it for panic at Stiles’ screwup, admitting he was underage, but it hadn’t been just that. _Two weeks, my werewolf ass_.

“At least tell me you really are seventeen.” And now _Derek’s_ heart is pounding because Stiles has that fresh, sweet face that could mean anything.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, staring at Derek, who just waits. “ _Derek-”_

He folds his arms, forces his face to go blank, and Stiles closes his eyes. “I’ll be eighteen in six months,” he husks out, and all the air leaves Derek’s lungs. Stiles is all over him a half-second later, hands clutching at Derek’s shirt.

“It’s just a fucking _number_ ,” he’s pleading now. He presses his face to Derek’s. “Don’t- _don’t_.”

“Don’t what, Stiles? Don’t worry that I’ve been sleeping with a fucking high school kid who’s a hell of a long way from legal?”

“I’m the same person I was ten minutes ago,” Stiles says, rapid and shocky. “It’s an arbitrary fucking line, we both know that-”

“An arbitrary line that has _real world consequences_ , Stiles, as you’d know seeing you’re the son of the goddam _Sheriff_.”

“It doesn’t have to- we can still be together,” he insists. Trust him to cut right to the heart of it. Because Derek doesn’t care that he lied, not really. He knows why Stiles did it. It’s what happens next they’re both panicking about.

Derek turns his head to stare down at the floor, biting on his lip. “Tell me. How- how do you think this would work. We sneak around?”

“There’s no law against dating,” Stiles says, desperate.

“So we date. For six months. No sex.” Derek gives him a look. “You really think we could do that?”

“Couldn’t we _try?”_

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Stiles,” he sighs. “Look. If we do this openly and we slip up, I’d lose my job, most likely. Even if I didn’t it’d be fucking difficult to work with the Sheriff’s department if I’ve been charged with the statutory rape of the Sheriff’s son.”

That human heart is hammering. “So we hide, then. We only meet here-”

“Because we’ve had so much luck with that. We ran into my goddamn uncle at a roadside truckstop, Stiles. Your friend Scott has my picture on his phone, knows we spent the weekend together. You really think we can count on everyone who already knows holding their tongue, _and_ never running into anyone else?”

“You’ve already decided. Haven’t you.”

There’s silence. Stiles swallows hard, and backs away. “Derek,” he holds out his hands, despairing. “You _said_ , you said you wanted me, wanted to be there, _you said-”_

“And I _do_.” He wraps the kid up in his arms and buries his face against Stiles. “You’re everything to me,” he growls. “Don’t ever- you _have_ to know that, Stiles.”

“But you’re sending me away,” he says, voice breaking.

Derek breathes in deep, eyes closing. “Stiles,” he says, “Stiles, listen to me. I don’t want to. I don’t want to be apart from you, even the thought of it is driving me crazy. But we have to do this, we _have to.”_

“Why? Just because I’m not eighteen yet? Because you don’t think we can-”

 _“Because this isn’t casual for me,”_ Derek hisses, and he leans back enough to shake Stiles, just a little, make him look Derek in the eye. “Because you have no idea how deep this goes for me, okay. I’ve been up all night thinking about this and there just isn’t any other way. I _want_ you Stiles, I want you _forever_ , not just to be your first boyfriend or the guy who helped you out of a bad situation. I want to be a permanent part of your life.”

“Then _be that_ ,” Stiles yells, shoving hard, “how the _fuck_ can breaking up with me-”

“Tell me how you feel about me.”

“Wh-what?”

“How do you feel about me?” Derek is suddenly deadly calm, he lets his hands fall to his sides, eyes on Stiles’ face.

The room seems too small, too quiet. Stiles stares back at him. “I. I- that’s kind of a big que-look, I don’t-”

“You don’t know.”

“I- that’s not- just, give me a second, okay,” Stiles raises a hand in the classic _wait_ gesture, but his heartbeat is out of control and his face is pale.

“You don’t know how you feel about me,” Derek says, makes sure his voice is very even. It costs him, though. He bites his lip hard enough to bleed. _Come on_ , _man up, Hale_ , _he’s not trying to hurt you_. _He’s just young. Confused._

“That’s not true,” Stiles says tightly. He wraps his arms around his chest, shoulders hunched, “I may not have a glib answer ready but I care about you, I do.”

“I know that. I know you do. You care about me. You feel safe with me. You want me. Right?”

Stiles glares at him, “Why does that sound like you’re just listing more reasons we should be apart?”

Derek moistens his lips, nervous. “You’ve been through a lot these past few months. You’re hurt, in a lot of different ways.” He waits for Stiles to say something, but he just shrugs at Derek, mule-stubborn. “And then, in the space of a few days, most of your worries are taken care of. Right?”

Now Stiles looks less angry and more stricken. “Derek,” he begins, arms unfurling, “I know that – I mean, you’ve done this amazing thing for m-”

 _“No,”_ Derek half-shouts, spins away, “God, _don’t_.”

Stiles just stares, one hand still reaching. He’s pale.

Derek closes his eyes and says more carefully, “ _Don’t_ tell me you’re grateful, or that you owe me, or anything like that. _Please_. That’s- that is the absolute _last_ thing I want.”

“You- how can I possibly do that? I’m supposed to _forget?_ Pretend you didn’t-”

“Don’t you _get it?_ That’s why – _that’s_ what I’m afraid of. This is all – it’s too much, too soon. Too sudden. How can you know what you’re really feeling, Stiles? It’s all tied up in all the other stuff that’s happened this weekend. Gratitude. Sex. Guilt. Relief.”

“You think I’d go out with you because of the money,” Stiles says, like a man that’s been stabbed but doesn’t quite feel it yet. “You think- think that I’m, that I’d keep-”

 _“No,”_ Derek shoots back tightly. “No.” Then he sighs, exhausted, and tells the last, ugly truth he was trying to hold back. “Not consciously.”

“Not consciously,” Stiles echoes. He rubs a hand over his chest, staring dully at the floor.

Derek shrugs, helpless. “How could you ever be sure? If we kept on as we are right now?”

“You said. Said I’m not a whore.”

Oh _fuck_. His stomach roils. “And I meant it. You _know_ I meant it. Stiles,” Derek says helplessly.

“But you think-”

“I think I don’t ever want you to feel confused about us. I don’t want you to look back and wonder if maybe you might have made different choices, if you’d just had time to _think_.”

Stiles doesn’t move. Derek stares at him helplessly, shit, why is he so bad with words? He runs his hands over his face, trying to think, and then inspiration strikes.

“Here,” he grabs his phone off the kitchen counter and shoves it at Stiles. “Look at the message history. Read them.”

Stiles takes it, reluctant and confused, then navigates through the messages, flicking glances at Derek as he does. Derek can see the moment he finds the Laura thread, watches him work backwards through it, to that first message.

“I _told my sister_ about you, Stiles,” he says, and spreads his arms, willing him to understand.

“This is – this is from Saturday morning,” Stiles whispers, staring at the screen. “From- even then?”

“I told you,” Derek says softly. “I wanted you right from the start. I’d have approached you anywhere. If I’d met you during an earthquake or on the morning of your own fucking wedding, Stiles, I would still have tried to win you.”

Stiles hand falls to his side. He slides the phone onto the kitchen counter and meets Derek’s gaze, still pale but not _wounded_ anymore.

“I know what I want,” Derek says, as calm and as sure as he can. “I just want you to take the time, and get some distance, and know for sure that you want the same thing. This is – it’s too important to risk. For me.” He steps closer.

Stiles just breathes for a while, then leans in until his forehead rests against Derek’s shoulder. “What- what is it you expect me to do, exactly?” His voice is thick with tears. “For _six_ fucking _months._ ”

He cups the back of Stiles’ head. “Just. Just take some time to be you again. Without all the burdens.” _Without the guilt_ _and self loathing_ , he thinks. “Be seventeen. Let your life go back to normal. Watch too much TV and do your college applications and,” he swallows, “go on dates.”

“Dates?” Stiles jerks back. “You want me to _date?_ ”

He keeps his breathing even with effort. “I think you should maybe try.”

“You fucking want me to _see other people?_ After all this-” he gestures a little manically. “Your sister and the wolf stuff and this entire goddam weekend-”

“I think it couldn’t hurt.”

Stiles gapes at him. “First of all, there is nobody on the _entire west coast_ who wants to date me other than you.”

“Bullshit.”

“ _Second_ of all, how can you possibly think anyone else is going to compare to all of _this_ ,” he waves wildly at Derek.

“Busted,” he says, deadpan. “You’ve discovered my cunning plan.”

Stiles stares. A second later, his lips twitch and he snorts. “You,” he pokes a finger into Derek’s chest, “are an _asshole_.”

 _But I’m your asshole_ , Derek thinks. He hopes. His kisses Stiles once, gently, and then lets his hands fall away. Stiles looks mutinous for a moment, then sighs. Derek knows better than to believe that’s capitulation.

They separate, finally, and wander silently around the apartment putting their belongings in separate bags, tidying up the traces of the weekend they’ve spent together.

It’s fucking awful.

“Can we at least- talk?” Stiles asks, looking up from his laptop bag. He sounds hopeful and it _hurts_.

Derek hesitates, head down. He stares into the sink. “I think... better not,” he says, and dries the fucking Jacob mug.

“We can’t even _talk_ to each other? That’s- fucked up.”

“The point is for you to get some distance from me, from this situation,” Derek says. He doesn’t move, because he wants so fucking badly – what harm could a handful of text messages do? But he knows damn well it wouldn’t stop there. Stiles is relentless when he’s made up his mind, and if Derek lets him blur the edges they might as well not have had this conversation at all.

He thinks again of Stiles saying _you said I wasn’t a whore_ and hardens his resolve.

“No contact,” Derek says, his voice suddenly hard.

Not until Stiles knows for _himself_ who he is, without relying on Derek’s opinion. He won’t cripple the kid that way.

 

 

 

They find themselves, inevitably, packed and ready to go. Stiles hasn’t eaten, and Derek isn’t going to push it. That beautiful mouth is shaped in a slight downturn, and the sight of it is digging holes in Derek’s gut and his resolve.

 _One phone call a month_ , he thinks. Surely that wouldn’t be so-

“You’ll find someone else,” Stiles chokes out, staring down at the floor. “You _will_.”

“Never happen,” Derek says softly. “It took me seven years to find _you_.” He slants a glance over, tries to muster a smile for Stiles. “Not everyone is interested in a surly, monosyllabic creature of the night, Stiles.”

That gets a slight curl at the corner of his mouth.

“And I won’t be looking anyway.”

“But _I’m_ supposed to? Look?”

“It’s your decision,” Derek says softly. Then he looks down at the floor. “I just think that maybe-”

Stiles, of course, notices his sudden indecision. “What?”

“I said that mostly for your benefit.”

“But?”

“But I think that maybe it would help me to feel like-” he takes a quick breath, “Like you’re actually _choosing_ me. Not just. Because I seem. Safe. Or turn you on.”

He is staring at Derek in wonder. “You think you’re some kind of _back-up_ option for me?”

Derek shrugs helplessly.

Stiles steps closer. “Sourpuss,” he whispers. Kisses Derek once. “Sour _wolf_. You do feel safe to me. Because you listened to my shit and told me yours. Because you somehow, _ridiculously_ , seem to think I’m awesome. Because you let me pay for the icecream. _Not_ because I don’t have any better options. There _are_ no better options, because I stumbled over my number one choice Friday night. Okay?”

He can’t speak. He just cups Stiles’ face in his hands and fits their mouths together. They switch to that perfect language, the one with no misunderstandings.

Derek tells him _it kills me to send you away_ and Stiles says _I know._

 _I just want you to remember how to feel good about yourself_ , he tells him silently and Stiles says _I’ll try_.

The third kiss has nothing to say. It's just for them.

They drift apart, finally, and there’s no anger or regret, just a deep sorrow holding them both back from taking that last step.

“I have to go,” Stiles says finally. “I want to drop in on Dad before school. They’re talking about releasing him this week.”

“That’s good,” Derek says. “That’s great.” He lets his hand ghost over the bag Stiles is holding, the shape of the coffee mug he slipped in without Stiles seeing. It’s cheating, but. This is his mate. He’ll fight to keep him in every way he can that doesn’t hurt Stiles.

“Six months,” Stiles says. His hands clutch for one second, “You won’t forget me.”

“I’ve stolen one of your shirts,” Derek tells him. It’s the best proof he can offer.

That gets him the ghost of a grin. “You gonna keep it under your pillow?”

“Probably,” Derek says, not even trying for dignity.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and takes a breath. “Okay.” He hesitates. “I have, like a million questions about the wolf stuff.”

“You can ask me later,” Derek says. “Do _not_ go on the internet.”

“I promise,” Stiles says gravely, and Derek sighs, almost smiling. Stiles is going to be reading a lot of perverted porn very soon.

“If you need to talk to someone, do _not_ approach my uncle,” he says, because that’s basically Derek’s worst nightmare, but Stiles is already nodding fervently and Derek relaxes just a little. He hesitates. “The local vet.”

“Dr Deaton?”

“He knows. What I am.”

“Dr _Deaton?_ ”

Derek nods.

Deep breath. Stiles takes another, reluctant step back. “Gotta go,” he says.

“Go protect my good name. Prove to Scott you’re not a bloated corpse,” Derek says, soaks up the quick flash of smile.

He clenches his hands into fists to stop himself grabbing hold, shifts from foot to foot, and the shape in his pocket reminds him. “Oh, hey,” he slides his hand into his pocket and reaches for Stiles’ hand, folds those beautiful fingers over the spare apartment key. “This is yours. Come here whenever you need to,” he adds, because it eases something in his heart to think of Stiles in this place, remembering them. Missing Derek. He’s really not as nice a guy as Stiles thinks, because he definitely wants Stiles to miss him and be miserable at least _some_ of the time until his birthday rolls around.

And if Derek sneaks back the apartment occasionally to soak up Stiles’ scent? Well. Who would begrudge him that harmless indulgence.

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath. Their eyes meet.

“Six months,” Derek says, and Stiles nods once, biting hard on his lip.

He goes.

 

 


	17. Waiting for Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this after the work is already complete, you might enjoy reading Part 2 before you read this chapter. It contains scenes from the intervening six months.

SIX MONTHS LATER

 

Derek leans back on the hood of the Camaro and squints into the sunlight. He hesitates. Will it make him look like a trying-too-hard douchebag? Then shrugs, and drags out his sunglasses, slips them on. He’s wearing a leather jacket to lurk in a high school car park, for fuck’s sake, he’s clearly _already_ trying too hard.

He can’t even remember the last time he stood in front of his closet and hesitated over his _fashion choices_. Somewhere Laura just cracked a rib laughing and isn’t sure why.

Inside the school there’s a mix of sounds, it’s like thunder in the various corridors, and trying to pick out one voice or one heartbeat is an exercise in futility. He tries anyway, of course.

Stiles stumbles out one of the doors on the far side of the parking lot, talking a mile a minute like Derek would have absolutely predicted he’d be. There’s a kid with a mop of dark hair at his side, talking at roughly the same rate, and he’s the one that catches sight of Derek. He stops abruptly, eyes narrowing, and at that moment Derek thinks, ah. _Scott._ And sighs.

Stiles frowns at Scott in confusion, then follows his line of vision. He spots Derek and promptly trips over his own feet, managing not to fall but knocking Scott off-balance in the process. He keeps his head up, though, eyes locked on Derek.

He looks utterly shocked. Derek has a hideously long moment where his stomach lurches - _it’s too much, on his actual birthday, like I couldn’t wait, talk about pressure, he’s moved on_ \- and then it happens. Stiles straightens. Derek swallows.

The kid smiles.

Actually, Stiles fucking _beams_ , joy and surprise all over his face, all lit up with it and Derek feels himself unwind completely for the first time in six months. He pushes off the Camaro and steps to one side, revealing the oversized cupcake and candle resting on the hood.

He hears Stiles choked-off laugh from all the way across the parking lot, and the corner of his mouth lifts in response.

“Okay,” Scott mutters to Stiles, resigned, and gives Derek a cool look as they walk across the parking lot. “I see where this is going.”

Stiles hesitates for a second, glances at Scott. “Listen, I know we were gonna-”

“Nah, it’s okay, man,” and he hugs Stiles quickly. “Happy Birthday. Go have a great time,” he says, then winces as if realizing what he just said and what it implies. Stiles snorts, but flashes a quick glance toward Derek.

“Yeah,” he says, “I think I will- do that.”

“See you tomorrow,” Scott says. “And text me later,” he adds, more loudly as Stiles begins to jog across the remaining distance. That one was for Derek, he’s pretty sure. It’s gonna be a while before Scott stops associating Derek’s face with the phrase _my bloated corpse_.

“Hey, Danny,” Stiles tosses the greeting over his shoulder even as he skids to a stop in front of Derek. Vaguely he notes the other kid’s muttered _holy shit he wasn’t kidding._

 There’s something in his voice Derek can’t quite parse, doesn’t matter because Stiles is suddenly _there_ , the scent and the warmth and the light of him, and Derek breathes in deep.

He doesn’t move. Maybe Stiles isn’t out at school, even if he is maybe he doesn’t want any PDAs.

“Hey,” Stiles greets him, eyes flicking down to the cupcake and the unlit candle. He doesn’t mention the lack of flame and Derek feels a long breath ease out that he’s possibly been holding ever since Stiles walked out of his apartment. “So. You showed up.” He manages to sound thrilled and stunned and disbelieving and giddy all at once.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Well. Y’know, six months is a long time.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve probably had time to think of pretty much every variation of what might happen once my birthday finally came ‘round. You’d ring the doorbell, or you’d text, or you’d just leave a gift and wait for me to respond, or you’d call late one night or you just. Wouldn’t do anything,” he finishes softly, eyes down. “ _Bam_ , finished.”

“That last one was never going to happen,” Derek says. “I’ve had thoughts about all the others. Six months was a long time for me, too,” he adds hesitantly.

Now a soft smile is curling the edges of Stiles’ mouth. It’s a nice sight. “Yeah, apparently.” And now he’s grinning, biting his lip. His eyes shift to the hood of the Camaro again. “This all for me?” Stiles asks, reaches out to pick up the cupcake.

“It’s your birthday,” Derek says, voice deeper than he intended because Stiles is running a finger through the fucking frosting and Derek’s dick is suddenly hard as granite.

Stiles ducks his head, grinning, and lets his backpack fall to the ground at their feet. The glance he slants up at Derek somehow manages to be _shy_ , even after all the things they’ve done together, and Derek licks his lips.

“So... no birthday kiss?”

“You can have a birthday anything you want,” Derek says, low and intent, “though I wasn’t sure you’d want it in the parking lot of your school.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and stands a little straighter. “Are you kidding? I just gained about a thousand popularity points by standing _next_ to you.” He reaches out and snags one finger in the belt loop of Derek’s jeans. Distantly he hears a chorus of _oh my gods_ from a gaggle of girls over by the flagpole.

Derek’s lips twitch, and he leans in a little. He should have expected it, but then, when has he ever predicted Stiles. Still, the smear of frosting over his lips is easily taken care of. He sighs against Stiles lips, gets lost in him a little and when Derek lifts his head a long time later the parking lot is half-empty.

“So,” Stiles says, leaning back with a soft smile, “you got a birthday surprise for me, big bad?” There’s a flush high on his cheekbones.

“I have plans,” Derek says. “I thought I’d drop you off at the station to see your Dad for a while, then take you out to dinner. And dessert.”

Which will be slushies at the late-night grocery store in Palmerston. Derek is resigned to his slow transformation into a sentimental idiot. The delivery guy probably doesn’t even work there anymore. If he does, he’s forgotten the two of them.

“These are good plans. I like these plans. And after dinner _and dessert?_ ” he raises his eyebrows, managing to be both goofy and carnally tempting at the same time. Derek sighs.

“And after that I thought we could go parking and make out.” He leans in closer, watching carefully as he says softly, “And not have sex.”

Stiles blinks at him. “This- _this_ is your idea of a birthday treat? Show up here with all this,” he waves a hand in Derek’s direction, “and tell me we will not be having sex? I’m legal now, ya know.”

“I know,” Derek says, closing his eyes that they even _have to_ _have this conversation_. “I do know, believe me. But you’re a senior in high school, and I want you to have that experience while you can.” He hesitates. “I know- we’ve done things backwards. And very possibly,” he adds with more honesty, “we’re not going to be able to resist for long. But. I feel like-”

Stiles’ eyes are impossibly soft.  “Trying to make sure I don’t feel cheated, big guy? Want me to feel special and courted, and all that shit? Gonna _romance_ me?” Somehow he makes it sound both affectionate and dirty, it’s like a superpower and Derek is going to have serious trouble resisting.

“Maybe.”

Stiles grins, squeezes Derek’s hand and lets go. “Well all right then,” he says, “let’s get this birthday started. I promise not to tempt you too much, test all that wolfy willpower.”

Ah, fuck. Derek is _done for_.

They climb into the Camaro and Derek hesitates for a second, then slides his phone out of his pocket and snaps a quick photo of Stiles as he straightens from throwing his backpack onto the back seat. The kid gives the space a long look, like he’s taking mental measurements of the best way to fit back there, and Derek swallows before he looks down at the screen.

It’s not the best photo ever. Stiles’ hands are clearly in motion – when are they _not_ , Derek thinks wryly – and he’s mostly in profile so the impact of those amber eyes is lost. But he looks relaxed, safe in his own skin, one corner of his mouth curling up in anticipation of the night ahead. The birthday cupcake is balanced on the console between them. Derek stares down at the screen for a long moment and when he looks up Stiles is watching him curiously.

“Whatcha doing?”

Derek breathes deep. Then he taps in a message to Laura on his phone, attaches the picture and hits send.

He tilts the screen so Stiles can see.

_I’m happy_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ***

 

 

 

 

He’s not even out of the parking lot when the phone rings, and somehow, unbelievably, he’s _too slow_ to stop it. He should have made _don’t call you’ll spoil the mood_ a permanent injunction.

“Hey,” Stiles says, phone pressed to his ear and leaning as far away from Derek as he can. “Is this Laura?” His eyes are dancing.

Fucking _Laura_.

 


End file.
